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2020-12-11
Updated:
2021-05-14
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My Own Worst Enemy

Summary:

After a messy breakup at the beginning of the summer, Pannacotta Fugo is worried about going back to school in the fall. He's already an outcast; rumors of murder followed him from his last school, and his prickly attitude isn't particularly inclined to making friends.
When Guido Mista sits next to him in art class, he realises a fatal mistake: No matter who he blames his problems on, he is always his own worst enemy.

Notes:

follow me on twitter @toothfaerie69

title of this fic comes from My Own Worst Enemy by Lit, an emo banger that played pretty consistently in my headphones through eighth grade.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7cqWtTlePIA5wu3XU2RRsK?si=iwy11-PST3GT7fBpVvBi_Q

Here's a link to the playlist accompaniment that'll be updated as I write.

 

11/14/21 hey y’all i think this might be on a permanent hiatus sorry )’:

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1: Weird Autumn

Notes:

chapter title is from the night in the woods soundtrack, Weird Autumn by Alec Holowka

Chapter Text

 

Fugo was dreading going back to school. He’d been thinking about it all summer, pacing the length of his apartment with a pencil clutched between his teeth, brainstorming how to best avoid Narancia in the halls. He was supposed to be doing prep for calculus, but derivatives were the last thing on his mind as his eyes jumped from item to item that reminded Fugo of him.

The first bell had already rung. It was seconds before the tardy bell would go off, and Fugo knew that if he didn’t hurry he would be late on the first day, the kind of precedent he used to care about.

He dragged his legs numbly down the hall, keeping his head tilted to avoid eye-contact with his peers. The halls were nearly empty, but he could steal hear snatches of whispers and comments of passersby.

"Pannacotta Fugo, with his ugly ass clothes and shitty personality."

"Fucking freak, I heard he killed a guy in middle school."

"Narancia dumped him so he could finally get some peace."

The words nipped at the back of his mind. It was in his head, he reminded himself. Intrusive thoughts. It’s just you projecting your negative feelings onto everyone else. They don’t really think that way about you.

They don’t really think about you at all.

He pushed into his first block just as the tardy bell rang. The teacher gave him a small smile, and he slunk into the only empty desk wordlessly. No Narancia in his AP classes, he had that at least. But no more tutoring him in the cafeteria, table littered with fruit roll up wrappers and gummies he’d stolen from the vending machine.

The day crawled by slowly, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated. He hid in the library during lunch, forgoing a meal for a granola bar he tucked in his pocket, nose buried deep in a book about Italian mobsters.

It wasn’t until his last period that he ran into trouble.

He sat down in his art class, one of his mandatory A through G requirements he apparently needed to graduate from high school and was taken aback when an unfamiliar presence loomed over him.

“You’re Pannacotta Fugo, right?” The voice was strong, and a large hand gripped his shoulder. “Guido Mista, but you can just call me Mista.”

“Yeah, I actually go by Fugo,” he said thinly. “And there are plenty of empty seats. You don’t have to sit here.”

Mista slapped his shoulder and slid into the seat next to him. He was tall, lanky, with smooth brown skin. Fugo snapped the rubber band he kept on his wrist.

“I want to,” Mista said. “Hey, Giorno, get over here.”

Another boy approached their table, and he at least had the decency to look nervous. Fugo bared his teeth.

“Mista, there are some other tables, we don’t have to bother him—”

“Nah, it’s cool, Fugo here is a homie. We go way back.”

“No, we don’t.” Fugo said. “I think your friend is right.”

“Giorno’s just a little bitch, don’t worry about him.” Mista grabbed Giorno by his bright pink blazer and yanked him into a seat. “Tell me everything man.”

Mista leaned forward on his elbows, at rapt attention to whatever he expected to come out of Fugo’s mouth. Fugo just sighed and pulled his pencils out of his backpack.

“I see you got the Ticonderogas,” Mista said, clearly interested in keeping the space perpetually filled with chatter of some kind. “I used to love those, but Giorno got me into mechanical pencils.”

Giorno said nothing. He was propping his chin up with his hand and looked properly bored. Fugo began to notice the way his light blond hair stayed perfectly coiled above his clear green eyes, but a quick snap of the rubber band startled him out of it.

“Anyway, I love art class.” Mista shoved his hands into his backpack without looking. “We’re gonna have so much fun.”

“There’s no we here, Mista,” Giorno said. “I get you’re kind of dense, but this is Pannacotta Fugo.”

“I know!” Mista smiled widely. “He seemed like he needed a friend.”

“He’s insane.” Giorno stood up. “Entertain this all you want, but I’m finding somewhere else to sit.”

Giorno’s legs were long, and his movements were graceful. Even the way his hips swayed when he walked looked purposeful, and Fugo had no trouble imagining the cold but striking look on his face.

Another snap of the rubber band.

He looked up, and realized Mista was still staring at him.

“Aren’t you going to go off with your friend?” he asked. “It’s easier for both of us.”

“I’m not like that, dude,” Mista laughed. “What’s up with you? How was your summer?”

Fugo was genuinely taken aback. In all his years since he’d emancipated himself and transferred, no one had actually come up to him and asked him in earnest about himself.

This must be a joke.

“Seriously, fuck off.” He snapped the rubber band for no particular reason, relishing the sting.
“Nah, man, I’m here for the long haul.”

#

Fugo’s walk home was lined with lyrics to angsty songs, McCafferty and Linkin Park blasting in his ears.

Mista had talked at him for the remainder of the block, shooting looks over at Giorno and gesturing for him to join them. Giorno kept declining until he switched seats with someone so Mista was out of his field of vision. Mista threw things at him (escalating from crumpled balls his fished out of his backpack, intricately folded paper airplanes, also from his backpack, and eventually began to throw pencils, erasers, and other larger, harder objects) and only stopped when the teacher threatened him with detention. He laughed good naturedly and flashed her a big grin.

“Won’t happen again, teach.”

Fugo still couldn’t believe it. He had probably uttered a total of ten words in the entirety of their conversation, but it was still the most he’d talked to another person in a long time. Even at work, his boss largely ignored him, save for a curt “Good morning” and a cursory “goodbye”. Paperwork was always already on his desk when he got there, and he simply filled it out and put in the baskets before he left.

He nearly walked past his building. He snapped his rubber band and made his way to the front door. The lobby was empty, and he grabbed his mail before climbing the stairs.

Bills, bills, and more bills. A couple college brochures that insisted they wanted him, shitty schools in the Midwest that practically had to pay you to attend. He set down his bag and sat at his dining table. He slid his switchblade out of his pocket and opened the letters methodically.

The piles soothed him. One for money he owed and one destined for the landfill. He sifted through them until he came to the bottom of the stack.

Pannacotta—

I hope everything is well. Your father and I are in Japan on vacation. We hope school is going well.

Sincerely,

Mom

Fugo frowned. It was a postcard, with a cityscape and the words “Tokyo, Japan” emblazoned on the front. He tossed it into his trash pile.

Once he sorted the mail, he began on homework. He only made it so far before the tightness in his stomach began to hurt.

He pushed, like he always did, but eventually he caved. He wasn’t anorexic; he didn’t restrict himself, he just genuinely hated eating. He wondered how he’d ever found pleasure in it, monotonous jaw movement, bits of food mixed in with saliva sliding down his throat.

The fridge was mostly empty. He had a half bottle of Gatorade, an unopened pack of protein shakes, and some Chinese food from a few nights before. He had meant to stop at the bakery to get some day-old loaves, but after the day he had, it slipped his mind.

He grabbed a protein shake and tossed it onto the table. It missed, rolling underneath the couch. He grated his teeth and got on his knees to grab it.
Last year, he would have been at Narancia’s, forcing down pudding cups and smiling behind his books as they “studied”. Well, Fugo studied. Narancia drew little comics in the margins of his notebooks and sang whatever was on the radio slightly off key. Instead, he was alone in his apartment, on his hands and knees rooting around under the couch for a bottle of chocolate flavored muscle milk. His hand finally made purchase, and he pulled it out from underneath the couch.

He banged his head against a dining chair. It was Narancia’s fucking water bottle he swore he hadn’t lost. Same scratched orange plastic, same peeling stickers.

Fugo grabbed the water bottle and threw it as hard as he could. It slammed into the fridge and knocked it closed. He cursed himself for not shutting it in the first place, remembering that power was always his highest bill.

He wanted to scream. He couldn’t go anywhere without memories of Narancia flooding back. If he stayed this vulnerable, who knew what else might come creeping in on him. He’d long ago finished his sessions with the court ordered psychiatrist, deemed safe to reintegrate with society, but he knew it was mostly a front. When one has read the DSM-5 as many times as Fugo had, it was easy to lie your way out of out-patient, and even therapy in general. They ask a question, you give them an answer. Slowly you shift your answers from insane, to slightly insane, from recovering to recovered. He’d walked out on his last day, and he swore the air was lighter. He even thought he could taste his dinner that night.

But that was then. Right now, he was sticking his hand underneath the couch and feeling around, hoping not to pull out anymore loaded reminders of the past.

He grabbed hold of something and pulled it out. His dinner at last.

He shook the bottle more vigorously than needed and unscrewed the cap with his teeth. He downed half of it in a single swallow and slammed the rest down on the table.

There’s still work to do.

There always seemed to be.

#

School went by smoother than he thought it would. Mista joined him in art every other day, spending half his time crowding Giorno’s table and scaring the freshman girls so they giggled and blushed.

He knew one of their names, but he almost wished he didn’t. Her reputation preceded her in that she didn’t have one. She’d shown up at the school without knowing anyone, and within the week she had a gaggle of friends following her around. Mista said it was her natural magnetism, but Fugo thought it more related to her tiny shirt.

Trish Una, five feet tall, maybe a hundred pounds, bright pink hair. The clicking of her heeled boots was unmistakable. One minute, Fugo was alone on the stairwell, the next, every freshman in the school was crowding around him.

“You seem distant today,” Mista said, absentmindedly chewing on one of Fugo’s pencils.

“Don’t I seem distant every day?” Fugo asked flatly. He tried not to engage, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself.

“C’mon man, something’s on your mind,” Mista popped the pencil out of his mouth and jabbed at Fugo’s shoulder. “Is there someone you like?”

Of all the concerns and grievances Fugo was expecting, this was not one of them.

“Someone I like?” Fugo felt his face flush in irritation. “Fuck off.”

“Oh my god, there is someone,” Mista said gleefully, with that retched grin of his. “Who?”

“There’s no one,” Fugo said. He snapped his rubber band. He snapped it again. A third time for good measure. Then a fourth. But Mista said four was bad luck. A fifth. He—

“Dude, I know that look,” Mista slapped his arm hard enough it stung. “You have to tell me.”

Fugo bit the inside of his lip and kept his head tilted down. They were supposed to be drawing aliens, and he was trying to get himself to care. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the images in his head onto paper.

“Fugo,” Mista flung his arms in the air. “I’m bringing Giorno over.”

“You do that,” Fugo said, snapping his pencil in half. The only other whole one was the pencil that had been in Mista’s mouth. He decided he was done drawing for the day.

“What do you want?” To his surprise, Giorno’s reedy voice filled the space behind him.

“I don’t want anything,” Fugo said. “Mista is being really fucking annoying.”

“He does that,” Giorno said.

“Rude,” Mista laughed and clapped Fugo on the shoulder. “I’m inviting you to hang out with us after school.”

“No thanks,” Fugo said. “I have homework.”

“No, no, it’s okay, we study together.” Mista gripped his hand tighter. “You have to come.”

Fugo knew there was no choice here. Either he went willingly, or Mista dragged him kicking and screaming. Looking to retain what little pride he had left, he reluctantly agreed.

What did he have left to lose?

#

As it turned out, he had quite a bit to lose, and it started out with his pride.

He trailed Mista and Giorno out of art class and scrolled absently on his phone while they waited for the rest of their friends to arrive.

“Yeah man, I am so down to make new friends.” The voice was unmistakable. His adrenaline went through the roof, and he swore he went through all five stages of grief in between a single heartbeat. “Oh. Yeah, guys I don’t…”

Fugo looked up and locked eyes with Narancia. He was still wearing that stupid bandanna he’d given him. The thought of that pushed emotions up into his throat he wasn’t ready to process.

“Narancia, meet Fugo,” Mista said. “Fugo, this is my boy Narancia.”

“We’ve met,” Fugo spat. “I think I’m going home now.”

“You can’t.” Mista said more forcefully than Fugo had ever seen him. “You promised.”

“Mista, I actually don’t think this is such a good idea,” Narancia said, his voice cracking like it always did when he was nervous or upset.

“Nonsense,” Giorno piped in, clearly seeing the tension that Mista could not. “You promised, Fugo.”

Fugo shot Giorno his best death glare, wishing the fucking twink would rot in hell for eternity. With his stamp of approval, Mista was unstoppable.

“Hey guys,” Another voice, deeper. “Who’s this?”

Fugo looked away from Giorno and locked eyes with the school’s most fearsome troublemakers: Bruno Buccellati and Leone Abbacchio. They were unmistakable, Bruno with his severe bob and penchant for patterned suits, Abbacchio for his long silver hair and purple lipstick.

“Bruno, Abbacchio, meet Fugo.” Mista smiled wide, like he was a kindergartener at show and tell. “He’s hanging out with us today.”

They eyed him warily.

“Hi,” Fugo said meekly.

“Hey,” Abbacchio said finally.

“Anyway,” Mista cut in just after it had begun to get awkward. “I was thinking we go to Narancia’s to study.”

“No,” Fugo and Narancia said in unison. They locked eyes, and both looked away quickly. Fugo could feel his face lighting up.

“C’mon, Narancia’s is the best,” Giorno said. “We have to.”

“No, it’s okay,” Mista said. “We can go to my place.”

Fugo let out a sigh of relief he hadn’t known he was holding. He stole a glance at Narancia and found him blatantly staring. They looked at each other for a while, before each diverting their glances, Narancia running his hand through is unruly brown hair.

Mista began to walk, and the rest of them followed. Giorno hung back and kept pace with Fugo.

“So, how do you know Narancia?” he asked, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You guys friends or something?”

Fugo didn’t bite. Fugo wouldn’t bite.

“Oh, I know, you’re cousins.” Giorno laughed. “You even look similar.”

Fugo couldn’t hide his look of disgust. They did not look similar. Narancia was tan skin and soulful, deep-set eyes, a brush of freckles and the sort of wiry, wily frame that kept him in and got him out of trouble.

And then there was Fugo: Anemic, pale skin, corn silk hair that always hung in his eyes. He was nothing like Narancia with his soft hands and golden shoulders.

“That’s not it,” Giorno said. “Something else, then.”

Narancia spoke up before he thought he would. “He’s my ex, Giorno.”

“Oh,” Giorno said as if he hadn’t already known. “What a coincidence.”

“Shit,” Mista said. “I had no idea.”

“It’s all good,” Fugo said reflexively. He was already out of place enough. Here was a group of guys who cared what they looked like, who hung out in groups and laughed like friends. What was Fugo doing there?

Pannacotta Fugo, worthless piece of shit.

Pannacotta Fugo, killed a guy.

Pannacotta Fugo, broke Narancia Ghirga’s heart.

“I think I need to go home,” Fugo said, voice breaking. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Before anyone could act, Fugo ran away, holding his backpack straps tightly against his chest, tears already streaking down his cheeks.

This was what he was reduced to, a crying piece of shit running home because he didn’t have the balls to stand up for himself. This was all he was, all he’d ever be. Those guys knew he sucked, knew what a pathetic faggot he was, and they just laughed.

He could hear it ringing in his ears even as he lay down in the dark, the silver chimes of their laughed rubbing against his ears like sandpaper.

Chapter 2: Die Anywhere Else

Summary:

I'm gonna try and speedrun this fic. I basically plan on writing it until I inevitably burn out. Summary is there is a party and Trish's house and shit kind of goes sideways.

Notes:

Chapter title is also from night in the woods, Die Anywhere Else by Alec Holowka.

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

Chapter Text

Fugo considered ditching class the next day but thought better of it when he looked at the work piling on his desk. Taking a single afternoon off had already thrown off his entire schedule and missing a day of class was no remedy for that. He figured he could call into the nurse’s office and get sent home early before sixth period.

 

It was pretty convenient when there was no parent or guardian who had to sign off, just a quick look up and down, the recognition of “Pannacotta Fugo” and a slip he handed to the attendance lady the next day.

 

He managed to keep it together until art class. There was a line out the door for the nurse’s office, and a couple kids shot him death glares as he walked by.

 

He pushed the door open to the art room and settled down in his usual seat.

 

Mista had sat with him the day before, so he figured he’d at least have the day to himself.

 

No such luck. Mista sat down heavily across from him, Giorno next to him.

 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Mista said, looking genuinely distraught. “I had no idea.”

 

“He had no idea,” Giorno repeated, mouth in a closed lip smirk. “He wants to make it up to you.”

 

Fugo said nothing. There was something in Giorno’s tone he didn’t like, a teasing edge, so outwardly malicious, unlike anyone else.

 

He mostly received frigid stares these days, but Giorno, Giorno looked at him like he hated him, like a fiery pit of hell lit up his insides and blazed out. When Giorno looked at Fugo, there was nothing but hatred in his bright, green eyes.

 

“Fugo, I’m sorry.” Mista reached into his backpack and pulled out a pack of Ticonderogas. “I know I chewed through all of the ones you didn’t snap in half, so I figured I’d get you new ones.”

 

Fugo was almost touched. The pack itself couldn’t have costed more than a couple of dollars, but the sentimentality reached his core. Mista hadn’t done anything wrong on purpose. Why was he apologizing?

 

“Thanks.” His voice came out small, and he swore he heard Giorno snicker. “Thanks, Mista.”

 

He looked up at him, into those almond shaped eyes of his and he almost felt something other than hot anger.

 

“It’s a pack of fucking pencils,” Giorno said, laughing. “You are fucking ridiculous.”

 

“Shut up, asshole,” Mista said. “Anyway, got any plans for the weekend?”

 

Fugo didn’t bite, because he almost never did, but Mista kept talking anyway.

 

“There’s gonna be a party tomorrow at Trish’s, and I think you should come. Narancia will be there, obviously, but I think we should start over. I mean, I don’t really know what happened, Giorno tried to tell me, but I ignored him, but I think you guys should try and make up.”

 

Make up.

 

Mista didn’t know how it had ended, screaming, throwing things, hot anger pulsing through his veins. He’d said things he shouldn’t have, heard things he hadn’t wanted to hear. There was no “making up”. Fugo and Narancia were over, and there was no getting back together.

 

“So, I’ll pick you up at seven, okay?”

 

Fugo looked at Mista, really looked at Mista, and saw the blatant desperation in his eyes. Here was someone who couldn’t hide his intentions for his life, who wore his heart and his emotions on his sleeve embroidered with sequins and glitter. There was a want in his eyes that tugged at something deep in Fugo’s stomach, the sort of feeling he hadn’t had since that day in June.

 

“Sure,” Fugo said. “Whatever.”

 

#

He paced the length of his apartment, trying to avoid looking at himself in the mirror. He had replaced his usual green sweater and slacks for jeans and a purple t-shirt.  

 

The shirt was old and fit him poorly. It hung off his shoulders and made him look even skinnier than he was.

 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there when he got a buzz on his phone.

 

From Mista: im her

 

here*

 

Fugo typed out his response and grabbed his jacket. He went down the stairs cautiously, unsure of what awaited him.

 

“Hey!” Mista was leaning his head out the passenger side of a Toyota sedan. “Get in here.”

 

Fugo let himself into the back seat, only to be met with Narancia. He ducked his eyes away, but it was too late.

 

“C’mon, Fugo,” Giorno said. “We’re gonna be late.”

 

Fugo sat down and buckled himself in, trying to curl into the smallest ball possible. He could feel Narancia’s eyes boring into his back.

 

The drive was short, and it wasn’t long until they made their way from his neighborhood to the gated community Trish lived in.

 

They drove until they came to one of the cookie cutter mansions. There was already a crowd of people, music and lights blaring from inside.

 

“You guys can get out, and I’ll find a place to park.” Giorno smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

“See you!” Mista threw the door open and launched himself onto the sidewalk. “All right, boys, are you ready for the time of your lives?”

 

Neither of them said anything. Narancia was probably thinking about the quickest way he could get fucked up enough to dance uninhibited on the

dining room table. Fugo just hoped he could find an empty bedroom and hole up by himself with a bottle of hard liquor for company.

 

“C’mon,” Mista grabbed Fugo’s arm and dragged him up to the front door. They were met with some freshman he didn’t recognize holding a basket

full of keys.

 

“Who’s your DD?” The kid asked.

 

“He’s parking the car,” Mista said. “Giorno Giovanna?”

 

“I don’t know who the fuck that is,” the kid said. “But whatever.”

 

He stepped aside to let them in, and they made their way into the depths of the Una house.

 

It was said that Trish’s mom was some sort of socialite, the kind that was barely home and left cabinets full of alcohol unattended. It seemed to be true. Wherever Fugo looked, there were high school aged kids holding red solo cups, cans of beer, and even the occasional bottle of wine.

 

Mista seemed to be dragging them in the direction of the alcohol table, and Fugo didn’t mind.

 

The table was beautiful, it looked like solid oak. The top of it was covered in pools of alcohol and mixer from forgotten cups and bottles. Fugo almost felt sick.

 

“You guys want my specialty?” Mista asked. “I call it Liquid Sex.”

 

“Whatever,” Fugo said. “Just fuck me up.”

 

He looked around while Mista busied himself at the drinks table, trying to make out familiar faces.

 

It was mostly underclassman, but occasionally he recognized one of his peers.

 

They milled around drunkenly, swaying their bodies to the too loud music, shouting to be heard.

 

People passed around pens and blunts, and the air was heavy with smoke. Fugo snapped his rubber band to ground himself.

 

“Here,” Mista shoved a cup in his hand, filled with murky liquid. Fugo mostly tuned him out as he rattled off the list on ingredients.

 

“There’s tonic water, gin, wine, but box wine, not the gross shit, some seltzer water, lemon juice…”

 

Fugo took a sip and immediately recoiled. It was about as disgusting as he expected. He took another sip and tried to swallow it as quickly as he could.

 

The whole cup on an empty stomach was enough to make him tipsy. He handed his cup back to Mista who looked impressed.

 

“Damn, that was really fast,” he said as he fixed another cup of his hideous concoction. “Drink this one more slowly, okay?”

 

Fugo didn’t comply because he never did. He thought about the pile of work waiting for him when he got home, study guides and homework sheets he needed to have filled out by Monday. He finished this cup off quicker than the first, and allowed himself to sink into the crowd.

 

Mista was tall enough that Fugo could see his hat poking above the crowd. He moved as far away from him as he could until he walked face first into someone’s outstretched arm.

 

“Watch it,” the voice was deep, sultry. Fugo found himself face to face (more accurately face to shoulder) with Leone Abbacchio. “Oh hey, it’s you.”

 

Abbacchio nudged Bruno, and he turned, eyes staring right through Fugo’s soul.

 

“Pannacotta Fugo, huh,” Bruno said leisurely. “The one and only.”

 

He smirked and whispered something into Abbacchio’s ear. Abbacchio laughed, covering his mouth with his hand in a surprisingly delicate gesture.

 

“Sorry, I’m just trying—” Fugo started, but stopped when Bruno reached out to pet his hair.

 

“Hang out with us for a bit,” he said with a lazy smile. “We’re gonna go find a room.”

 

Were they propositioning him? He had suspected they were together; everyone had. In their five-year run at Naples County High, they’d never been seen apart. Now as super-seniors (and looking like they may just be doomed to repeat another year) they reigned supreme, kings of haughty coolness and judgement.

 

“I’m good,” Fugo said, snapping his rubber band a couple of times. “I’m just looking for a bathroom.”

 

“Oh, we’ll show you,” Bruno said. “Lead the way, Leone.”

 

Fugo wondered how long it had taken them to grow accustomed to “we”, giving up their individuality to become two parts of a single whole.

 

He followed behind them more diligently than he intended, keeping rhythm with the clicking of Abbachio’s boots, and the clang of his chains.

 

They stopped, and Fugo nearly ran into them. Bruno leaned over and whispered something conspiratorially in Abbachio’s ear, and he laughed richly.

 

Fugo snapped the rubber band again.

 

As he entered the bathroom and locked the door, he imagined the two of them on the other side. It was funny because he never thought they were thinking anything particularly negative about him. They were so far up the ecosystem, Fugo was little more than the grass they trampled on as they stalked their prey.

 

He hadn’t really had to go to the bathroom, but figured he’d pee anyway. After relieving himself, he spent a minute digging through the drawers and cabinets. Typical of a guest bath, there was nothing interesting to be found, save a couple of poorly embroidered hand towels tucked in the back of the bottom drawer.

 

He sniffed the hand soap and lathered up, trying to avoid his reflection. He finished and opened the door, only to find that Bruno and Abbacchio had disappeared. He looked around, then realized it was a blessing. He slipped down the hall in search of a vacant room and possibly a book to read.

 

A house this big ought to have a library, Fugo thought. Even if no one who lives here knows how to read.

 

After pushing open several doors, and interrupting several couples, he finally found a room that seemed vacant. Based on the decorations, it was likely Trish’s room, bright pink and lavish with shag rugs and a canopy bed. On one wall was a flat screen TV, and on the other an ornate vanity with a minifridge perched on it. He opened the minifridge and found a couple bottles of something that was decidedly not alcohol. They were small and had those kinds of tops you pulled out droplets of liquid with. He picked one up and inspected the label.

 

“The Ordinary,” he read aloud.  “Brightening serum.”

 

He put the bottle back and closed the fridge. He knew it was a waste of time to look for any books, so instead he went to the side of the bed that appeared slept on and looked for a charger.

 

He was crouched behind the bed, trying to fit the stupid charger into the port when the door banged open, and a familiar voice filled the room.

 

“Trish, really, it’s fine,” Narancia said over the music flooding in through the door. “I don’t need—”

 

“C’mon, have some fun,” Her voice was lower that he’d thought, a little richer. He did not bother with the rubber band. “We’ll do facemasks and watch a shitty movie.”

 

Fugo then realized he had two choices: 1. Be found huddled in the corner of Trish’s room and explain himself, and 2. Hide and face the consequences later.

 

He chose to hide. He rolled under the bed (thank god for rich people and their aversion to storing anything anywhere visible) and slid between a couple of storage bins.

 

He held his breath as he saw Narancia’s feet stand where he had been moments before and breathed out as he felt the weight of two bodies sink onto the mattress above him.

 

He then realized the stupidity of his plan. In his drunkenness, he hadn’t really thought out what he was supposed to do for however long he was stuck down there. Not to mention, how was he even supposed to know when he could leave?

 

Realistically, the only time he could leave without getting caught was if both of them left, but that chances of that were low. He knew Narancia to be stationary, the lazy sort who wasn’t inclined to move unless prompted. Even then, unless there was an imminent reward, making Narancia go anywhere was an arduous task.

 

Above him, he heard the slightly muffled sounds of Narancia and Trish’s exchange:

“Seeing him yesterday,” Narancia started. It was hard to get a read on his tone through the layers of mattress that separated them, but the words were

clear enough. “It just dredged up so much painful shit.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Trish said. “This kind of stuff is hard.”

 

“Right? And then Mista invites him again! Even after he threw a temper tantrum. He just doesn’t get it.”

 

“Who doesn’t get it?” Trish asked gently.

 

“Mista!” Narancia was probably pulling at his hair. “He doesn’t know how it ended with me and Fugo, all those things he said, all the things I said. We…”

 

“Hey, don’t cry,” Trish said. “Mista just wants to be friends with everybody, and he’s especially attracted to people like Fugo—”

 

“Attracted!” Narancia cried.

“No, not like that. Just…” Trish composed herself. “Fugo is a loner. He has no friends, no acquaintances, nothing. I mean, you know better than anyone. The rumors that followed him from his last school—”

 

“They aren’t true,” Narancia said firmly. “Fugo doesn’t hurt people.”

 

A wash of guilt rolled over him. Sweet gentle Narancia, always believing in him. Always believing him in everything he said.

“Okay,” Trish said slowly. “But even so, it’s all about how people perceive him. I wasn’t here last year, but from what I’ve heard, you were his light. You introduced him to your friends, brought him out into the open. You were his only real window into the world.”

 

“And when he dumped me, he lost all of it,” Narancia said darkly. “It was his fucking fault.”

 

That was the truest thing Narancia had said all night. Everything was always Fugo’s fault. Every argument, every disagreement, every fight always started with something Fugo did or said.

 

“You’re past that, Narancia,” Trish said. “He’s not your responsibility anymore. You have new friends now.”

 

“I know,” he whined. “But there’s this part of me that wants to keep punishing him, make him hurt the way he hurt me. When I left his apartment, he didn’t seem any different than usual. He was angry, sure, but he’s always getting angry. I wanted him to hurt as bad as I hurted, to feel as terrible as he made me feel.”

 

“I get that,” Trish said softly. “But I think you just need to move past it.”

 

“But I’m not past it!” Narancia said. “I barely feel any different than I did in June. It’s just now I have new friends and he comes in and infects everything like he always does. Nothing is safe from Pannacotta fucking Fugo!”

 

The venom in Narancia’s voice made him sick. These were all things he knew, all things he told himself daily, but to hear them verbalized, actualized, made real and concrete hurt in a way he didn’t know he could. No amount of stinging from the rubber band could distract from the growing chasm of pain boring deep in his chest.

 

If he could cry, he would. If his tear ducts had any use beyond aesthetics, he would tremble and sob, and let tears streak down his face.

 

Instead he squeezed his hands into fists, letting his nails break skin. He was drunk and woozy with pain, and the only real thing that existed was the burning in his breast.

 

He let out a hiccup, and immediately covered his mouth, tasting the heady iron of blood.

 

“Did you hear that?” Narancia asked.

 

“It was nothing,” she said. He imagined her holding him close to that chest of hers, running her hands through his hair.

 

His hair, coarse and thick and unruly. The dark black of it against his olive skin, the hair that grew on his arms and his knuckles.

 

Fugo hiccupped again.

 

“Trish, I swear I heard something.” He sounded frightened. “I think there’s someone in here.”

 

“Let me check, okay?” Trish said as she rolled off the bed. He watched her feet track across the hardwood floor and open up the closet. “There’s no one here.”

 

Narancia sighed. “Sorry for making you get up,” he said.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Trish said warmly. “Let’s watch a movie, okay?”

 

After ironing out the differences in what they wanted to see, they settled on something loud and obnoxious. Both their bodies shook with laughter, and the bed rattled with them.

 

Fugo began to let his mind drift, trying to focus on anything but himself in the moment, but as soon as he did, all he was Giorno’s smirking face, the way those eyes of his bore deep into him and left a mark.

 

He frowned. He had no idea how long he’d been under the bed and had no way of checking. He’d tried to bring his watch to his face, his face to his watch, but there wasn’t quite enough room for full rotation.

 

Instead of trying to think of something, Fugo allowed himself to think of nothing. He closed his eyes and imagined himself in a tomb, sealed away for eternity.

 

Here he could never hurt anyone again.

Notes:

hello love you all, comment anything you liked/want to see and I'll do my best to incorporate it! much love to @themadamepsychosis for beta reading and not giving me any notes because I don't want notes I just want to spew content into the infinite abyss and. be validated by strangers.

Anway, love you freaks and happy reading.

Chapter 3: Constant Headache

Summary:

Fugo is under the bed. Whatever will he do?

Notes:

Chapter title is Constant Headache by Joyce Manor. Mentions of untraditional self harm.

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

Chapter Text

Fugo woke to the sound of his phone buzzing. He tried to sit up and managed to give himself a nice bump on the forehead.

 

It took him a minute to realize where he was. The lights were still on, but the sounds of the TV had faded, and as he strained his ears, he realized so had the rest of the party.

 

Fugo weighed his options: Narancia and Trish were likely asleep, deep in the same kind of alcohol induced slumber he had been. The only reason they hadn’t woken up was because his phone was on silent (and also because they hadn’t trained themselves out of sleeping deeply). If he crawled out now, there was a good chance he could make it out unharmed.

 

On the other hand, what if they weren’t asleep? Or what if he woke them up? What if he bumped the mattress, or stepped on a creaky floorboard, or did something, anything to get them to notice him.

 

They’d know he was some sort of creep. They’d think that he had hid there on purpose, that he was the kind of guy that got off on other people’s obliviousness. They’d tell everyone, and even Mista wouldn’t want to be seen around him anymore.

 

His lungs were getting dangerously tight, and he wished he could snap his rubber band to ground himself. Instead he took some deep breaths.

 

In some ways he almost felt better, calmer, than he normally would have in a situation like that. The wash of clarity gave him the motivation to slither out from under the bed, grabbing for purchase on the slick floors with his fingers.

 

He made his way most of the way out and blinked at the light. It was such a shift from the filmy darkness he’d been engulfed in.

 

It took him a minute to right himself. His joints were stiff, and his muscles hurt.

 

Instead of standing all the way up, he began to crawl across the floor. This was largely because his brain was in fatigue mode, and the information he was trying to send to his limbs was delayed enough that walking was definitely not a possibility.

 

 

He made it to the door before he thought to look behind him. Narancia was sleeping peacefully, on his back with his limbs strewn across the bed. Trish was beside him, as carefully poised in sleep as she was awake.  

 

It was only once the door was shut behind him that he realized he needed to check his phone. A missed call from Mista and a few dozen texts. He took it upon himself to respond to the latest one.

 

I’m upstairs. I’ll be down in a minute.

 

Mista began to type, but the dots appeared and disappeared. Fugo stuck his phone back in his pocket and stumbled down the hallway.

 

He was careful to step over sleeping bodies and made his way back to the foyer. Mista was sitting underneath the drink table, pressing one hand to his head and the other typing on his phone. He didn’t notice Fugo until he kicked him.

 

“Hey, Fugo,” Mista said, voice bleary with sleep and liquor. “Where you been?”

 

“Sleeping,” Fugo said. “Why’d you wake me up?”

 

“Well, Giorno really wanted to leave, but I couldn’t find you or Narancia anywhere. I wasn’t sure if you…”

 

Mista grimaces at the accusation, and Fugo frowns deeply.

 

“I don’t know where he was,” Fugo said. “But I don’t mind leaving.”

 

“Oh, that ship’s sailed,” Mista said. “Giorno left like an hour ago. He said he’d be back in the morning to pick us up.”

 

“What time?” Fugo asked. He was getting antsy and wanted nothing more than to leave.

 

“I dunno. He’s a fairly early riser, so it won’t be later than eight or nine.”

 

Fugo finally looked at his watch. It was just past three. He was sure he did not have six more hours left in him.

 

“I think I’m gonna walk,” Fugo said. “I’ll see you Monday.”

 

Before he could leave, Mista latched onto his leg with a vice grip.

 

“Dude, I cannot let you leave. You’re drunk, you live far away, and it’s really fucking late. It’s not safe.”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Fugo said. “Besides, I have my knife.”

 

He pulled his switchblade out of his back pocket and flipped it open. Mista recoiled in horror.

 

“You don’t…You don’t bring that to school, do you?” Mista asked incredulously. “Are you trying to get expelled?”

 

“Well, I’m not trying,” said Fugo. “But I’d rather be safe.”

 

“I don’t think that’s the answer,” Mista said, averting his eyes from the blade. “Look, if you have a knife, you’re basically asking for someone to attack you. Seriously, carrying a weapon makes the chances of getting into an armed fight so much higher. It’s like that gun rule, I forgot the name. If you show us a gun at the beginning it has to go off by the end. Seriously, I’m telling you it’s true.”

 

It was as serious as Fugo had seen him, and it almost made him want to laugh.

 

“Look, Mista. You don’t know me. You don’t fucking know me. So, do me a favor and stop pretending to.” It came out harsher than he’d anticipated, but not intended. He reveled in the hurt that flashed across Mista’s face, feeling a solid sort of support in the pain in his eyes.

 

Fugo shook his leg free and made for the door. He had one hand on the doorknob when someone grabbed at his back.

 

“Fugo,” Mista’s voice, a breath away from his ear. He must be drunker than he thought not to notice Mista getting up to follow him. The world swam before his eyes. “Fugo, you need to stop.”

 

Why did he still care? Fugo thought. Why does he fucking bother with me?

 

“I’m leaving.” Fugo twisted the doorknob, but it wouldn’t give. “Fuck.”

 

“Door’s locked, Fugo,” Mista said. “C’mon, let me get you something to drink.”

 

Fugo snapped his rubber band as he followed Mista back to the table. The burning on his wrist was nothing compared the tightness of his chest.

 

Mista wordlessly began mixing something, this time with far fewer ingredients.

 

“Rum and coke,” he said, shoving a cup into Fugo’s hand. “It’s sweet.”

 

Fugo took a long sip and reveled as it burned down his throat. It was sweet; he knew it should be, but it didn’t quite taste. It was more that he knew the drink was supposed to be sweet, that he tricked himself into imagining sweetness. In reality, he tasted next to nothing.

 

Mista took the cup back from him and drank as well. Off Fugo’s look, he added: “Easier to just make one and share.”

 

Fugo nodded and sat down. There was a rug on the floor, and it had snack crackers and potato chips crushed into it. A few feet away lay some bodies, and a few feet farther lay a few more.

 

It reminded him of middle school, a community bonding exercise at the beginning of sixth grade. They locked the incoming class in the gym and played movies for the whole night, pausing only get give them ice cream sundaes and snack sized packets of fruit gummies.

 

That was Before. Back when he was still effortlessly the top of class, the kid who skipped second grade. Sure, he was lonely, but that was only because he was better. He knew it. Everyone told him.

 

He set himself up in the corner of the gym, a fortress of blow up mattresses and blankets. This had been at St. Jude’s Academy for Excellent Boys, the best private school in the county. If he remembered correctly, tuition was forty thousand dollars a year. He was not alone in his luxuries. Most of the other boys had also brought mattresses and nice duvets, unwilling to give up creature comforts for even a single night.

 

Despite the richness of his setup, he spent the night alone. No matter how many blankets he curled around himself, or how deeply he nested in the pillows, he couldn’t shake the earth-shattering loneliness.

 

“Fugo,” Mista’s voice said, snapping him out of his head. “You good, man?”

 

“Yeah,” Fugo said, taking the cup from him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

“Okay,” Mista said, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “Okay.”

            #

 

They spent a while just sitting there, passing the cup back and forth. Mista refilled it a couple of times, but it was all sort of a blur.

 

His eyes were half-shut, lids heavy from drink. He might have been asleep, he might not.

 

He was lying on the ground, head resting in Mista’s lap. Mista’s own head was lolled back against the table, his hand caught in Fugo’s hair.

 

For one second, Fugo allowed himself the brief enjoyment of being held. It had been months since he’d touched another person, and to be held like this? He shivered.

 

            But reality sunk in like it always did. He pulled away and snapped at the rubber band. When that didn’t suffice, he curled his hands into fists, trying to draw blood.

 

            All his restlessness was enough to alert Mista, who blinked slowly and looked around before his eyes settled on Fugo.

 

            “Hey,” he said. “Hey.”

 

            He pushed himself up by the heels of his hands and grabbed Fugo. He shook himself loose and scooted further away.

 

            “Fugo,” Mista said with concern. “Fugo, what’s wrong?”

 

            He was still curled in fetal position, praying for the stinging in his palms to make the thoughts in his head slow down.

 

            “Fugo, man, what’s going on?” Mista rubbed his eyes. “Dude it’s so early.”

 

            Fugo’s watch was directly in his eyeline and it read 8:20 am. He said nothing.

 

            “Fugo,” Mista said, steeling his voice a little bit. “Something is wrong.”

 

            If he didn’t say something soon…

 

            “I’m fine,” Fugo said sharply. “Just hungover.”

 

            That much was true. His head was raging, and his whole body felt stiff. He tried to shift into a sitting position but found that made him far too nauseas.

 

            “Okay,” Mista said, still sounding concerned. “Can I get you something to drink?”

 

            Fugo shook his head and reached for the solo cup he’d been nursing from. Before he could bring it to his mouth, Mista swatted it away.

 

            “I meant water, dipshit. Or Gatorade or something. The cure to a hangover is not more booze.”

 

            Spoken like a true quitter. Fugo knew full well how easy it was to postpone the pain of waking up drunk, even if it meant paying for it later.

 

            “Whatever,” he said, clasping his hands over his eyes to block out the sunlight streaming through the gaps in the curtains.

 

            “I’m gonna get us something to drink.” Mista stood, stretching his impressively long legs. Fugo dug his fingers into his palms and winced at the pain. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’re hurt.”

 

            “I’m fine,” Fugo said. He relaxed his hands and felt warm blood slide down his palms and drip onto the rug. It was nice, clearly handwoven, and here he was staining it. What a piece of shit he was.

 

            He wasn’t sure how long it took Mista to return, but he heard an audible gasp when he pressed a cold bottle into Fugo’s bloody palm. Mista had enough decency not to say anything, but Fugo snapped his eyes open to give his best warning look.

 

            Disgust, clear and simple. Mista looked at him, completely revolted by his sorry excuse of an existence, eyes wide and mouth gently open.

 

            “Hey,” Mista said softly. “Do you need a band aid or something?” 

 

            You’re so unsightly, Fugo, let’s cover you up so no one has to see what a disgusting mess you’ve made of yourself.

 

            “Fugo, c’mere—” He tried to right Fugo, grabbing him by the arms and hoisting him upward, but Fugo resisted. “I’m trying to help.”

 

            There it was. I’m only trying to help. How many times had those words been thrown at him, a sentiment rife with bitterness and resentment.

 

            It was always Fugo’s fault in the end. No matter what anyone tried to do for him, he lashed out, simply refused to try and get better.

 

            “Fugo,” Mista repeated, far softer. He had dropped from a squat to sitting down on the rug next to him. He grabbed the bottle from Fugo’s hand and unscrewed the top. “Here.”

 

            He tilted the bottle to Fugo’s mouth, and he swallowed on impulse. It was infantilizing, childish, but somehow, he felt a little bit better.

 

            After a minute, Fugo shoved the bottle away, letting the contents splash onto the rug, neon orange mixing with the burgundy of dried blood.

 

            “Fuck off,” he said as loud as he could muster, which wasn’t very loud at all. “Leave me alone.”

 

            “You make this hard, don’t you,” Mista said with good humor. “But you can’t shake me this easy.”

 

            Fugo wanted to kick and scream and tell this useless idiot he wasn’t worth it. No amount of kindness or patience would fix what he’d become, what he’d always been. He was useless, beyond help, beyond redeemable.

 

            “Just give up on me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Fuck.”

 

            He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, his internal monologue slipping out in his altered state.

 

            “Just leave me alone,” Fugo tried to shove Mista away, but he was surprisingly strong. No matter how hard Fugo pushed against him, he wouldn’t give way.  “Leave me alone.”

 

            “Not a chance,” said Mista almost cheerfully. “You’re in this for the long haul, buddy.”

 

            “Fuck you,” Fugo spat. “Fuck all of you.”

 

            Mista only grinned. “Come here, you little shit.”

 

            He pulled Fugo into a hug, and he stiffened.

 

            Crouched on the floor, arms dangling useless beneath him, body weight holding him down—

 

            “Let go,” Fugo said with venom and stood up, head rush from the blood. “And fuck off!”

 

            If Mista realized something had shifted, he didn’t show it. He stood up with more stability than Fugo had and followed him down the hall to the bathroom. Not trusting himself on the stairs, he ran around the ground floor. The doors were mostly locked, and he threw himself at each one until a voice from the other side told him to fuck off. He kept repeating his pattern until the door gave way beneath him, and a large guest bath loomed before him.

 

            Before he could lock the door, Mista’s shoe crossed the threshold.

 

            “Fugo,” he said sternly, some of the charm missing from his eyes. “I’m serious. Are you okay?”

 

            Fugo wanted to shout obviously fucking not, but he didn’t trust himself not to start crying. Instead, he turned around and motioned like he had to pee.

 

            “I’m going to call Giorno to pick us up,” Mista said, taking out his phone. “And then I’m going to find Narancia. And then I’m going to meet you out front and we’re going home.”

 

            Home thought Fugo. Four hundred square feet of excruciating loneliness.  

 

            Before he could respond, Mista disappeared out the door. It hung open in his absence, and Fugo moved to close it.

 

            He turned to face himself in the mirror and met a sight for sorry eyes. His hair was messy, his eyes bloodshot, and his face was pale and gaunt. He looked down at his body and felt a wave of revulsion. The shirt hung off him like he was no more than a wire hanger, a bag of skin and bones tied together with pale, freckled skin.

 

            He reached down into the sink and tried to splash some water on his face.

 

            He missed. His shirt got soaked through and stuck to his skin. Fugo slammed his hands against the marble of the sink.

 

            He couldn’t do anything right. He was a fuck up in everything he did. Mista pitied him, that had to be it. Mista pitied him, Narancia hated him, and Giorno resented him. No matter what he did or where he went, he fucked up.

 

            He heard a knock on the door.

 

            “Giorno had already left,” Mista said. “He’ll be here in five.”

 

            Great, Fugo thought. More time trapped in the car with that asshole.

 

            “I’m gonna go try and find Narancia, but if I don’t, we’re gonna take you home anyway.”

 

            Fugo knew he should respond, say something, anything, words of confirmation or frustration, but his mouth wouldn’t open. He looked back into the mirror, and felt a wave of anger and frustration wash over him.

 

            He pulled back his hand and punched. The jolt ran through his fist and up his arm, settling in his shoulder and knocking him backwards onto the floor. The mirror was fine; he should have known he was too weak to cause it any damage. He sat on the floor and cradled his arm against his chest, reveling in his pain. Mista knocked on the door.

 

            “You okay in there?” he asked. “Let’s go outside and get some fresh air.”

 

            Mista pushed the door open (how had he forgotten to lock it?) and found Fugo on the floor.

 

“Dude, apparently I can’t leave you alone for even a second,” Mista said.  

 

“I’m fine,” Fugo said.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Mista said. “Look, I’m going to try and find Narancia upstairs, and then we’re leaving. Do I need to bring you with me?”

 

“No,” Fugo said. “I’ll wait outside.”

 

“Fine,” Mista said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

Fugo watched as Mista made his way up the hall and disappeared around the corner. He dragged himself through the doorframe and through the house, sidestepping prone bodies and sticky puddles.

 

The sun was an assault on his eyes. Everything burned white, and Fugo blinked until he could see again. A couple other kids were also milling outside, looking haggard and hungover. They nodded at him, and Fugo could feel their whispered curses under their breaths.

 

He sat down on the lawn. The sun was bright, his body ached, and there was no end in sight.

 

This was what it was to be sixteen. A constant fucking headache. 

Notes:

Sorry not much happens. I have so many ideas for the upcoming chapters that I kind of got distracted and just wrote without all that much thought as to things like "plot" and "pacing", I really just spent some time torturing poor fugo. Oh how I love to punish him. I'm gonna have to talk about this with my therapist, and work through it later. @themadamepsychosis says it's because I'm punishing myself by proxy. Who knows, eventually things will work out for him. Or they won't. Depends on my mood.

Chapter 4: Kiss Your Knuckles Before You Punch Me in the Face

Summary:

Okay TW for some nasty shit:
Mentions of violence and pain, hungover Fugo vomits into a toilet, some nasty slurs are exchanged, bones get broken and the aftermath is described in detail, general suffering and self-hatred, and just a general sense of crippling loneliness.

Notes:

Song title comes from Twin Sized Mattress by The Front Bottoms.

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

Chapter Text

Right as Mista stumbled through the front door with a very drunk looking Narancia slung over his shoulders, Giorno pulled up in an obnoxiously red car.

 

Fugo hadn’t noticed the night before how goddamn annoying Giorno’s car was. Some sort of sedan, in the brightest, boldest, firetruck red. Looking at the car was like getting poked in the eyes. Fugo could just imagine Giorno’s slender fingers reaching forward and plucking his eyes from their sockets, those perfectly round nails, impeccable nailbeds—

 

He snapped the rubber band just as Mista clapped him on the shoulder.

 

“Let’s get you home,” Mista said. “C’mere.”

 

He helped him up, and Fugo leaned against him with more weight than he intended.

 

The ground didn’t feel quite solid beneath him as they walked, every crack in the concrete an endless chasm leading to yet another pit of loneliness and despair.

 

Fugo really was the posterchild for teen angst.

 

He had just pressed his palm against the passenger door when Giorno honked, a loud and abrupt sound that sent him tumbling back into Mista and Narancia, effectively knocking them all over.

 

Fugo lay in the pile of limbs and closed his eyes, the insides of his eyelids painted a bright red. Narancia stirred, and turned to look at him, his eyes blown wide.

 

Fugo sat up with a start and pulled himself up by the handle. Despite how much Giorno disliked him, Fugo knew he couldn’t spend any more time in the backseat pressed up against Narancia.

 

He fell into the passenger seat and tried his best to ignore Giorno’s glare.

 

“Well?” he called out the still open door. “You guys getting in or what?”

 

Mista finally stirred from his position on the sidewalk, face still pressed into the ground. “Yeah, give me a sec.”

 

Fugo purposefully kept his eyes from glancing over to Narancia, his stupid bandana askew.

 

He instead stared down at his legs and hands. His palms were still bloody, and his pants were covered in stains of red where he’d wiped them off. Even his shoes seemed dirty, filth clinging to the laces.

 

He could feel Giorno’s gaze on him, those sharp green eyes tracking the bloody mess that Fugo was. He could feel disgust rolling off of him in waves.

 

“We ready?” Giorno said, breaking the silence. Narancia had managed to clamber into the backseat as well, and Mista was busy trying to buckle them both in.

 

“Move your ass, dipshit!” Mista shouted, trying to shove Narancia off the buckle.

 

“Fuck off!” Narancia cried, swatting his hands away.

 

“Shut up,” Giorno said coolly. “And buckle your fucking seat belts.”

 

Giorno turned the car on and slammed on the gas, Fugo jolted back in his seat, and felt his head bang against the headrest.

 

Giorno had to have been speeding. Fugo was too nauseas to read the speedometer, but it felt like they were traveling a million miles an hour, the passing landscape little more than a blur.

 

They screeched to a halt in front of Narancia’s house.

 

Narancia, who lived the furthest away.

 

Narancia, whose house Fugo never thought he’d see again.

 

“Narancia,” Giorno said. “Get out.” He twisted in his seat, blonde hair falling down his back and shoulders.

 

Narancia stirred and looked at him through lidded eyes. He grumbled as he unbuckled himself, and nearly stumbled over Mista’s dozing form. After he got out of the car, he slammed the door shut and looked back at Fugo, a brief flash of hurt in his eyes.

 

If Fugo hadn’t been looking for it, he wouldn’t have seen it. There was something desperate and breathless in the way Narancia had looked at him, as if apologizing for the things he had said.

 

He ducked his eyes away. He didn’t need that guilt. Everything in him hurt enough already.

 

Giorno looked at Narancia as he pressed his head against the door, fumbling for his keys in his pockets. The door swung open, and he nearly fell in, and Fugo could almost hear the chastisation coming from his dad.

 

As soon as the door shut, Giorno pulled away from the curb and sped down the street. Even without GPS or nav, Giorno seemed to know where he was going, cutting through side streets and blowing past stop signs.

 

“How the fuck did you get your license?” Fugo finally asked after a particularly sharp turn threw Mista’s body across the backseat.

 

“Oh, I don’t have one,” Giorno said. “Never bothered.”

 

“What?” Fugo screeched. “Holy shit, what the fuck…”

 

“It’s not a big deal,” Giorno said, sneering. “Cops don’t give a shit.”

 

Fugo squeezed his hands into balls, trying to focus on breaking the scabs. Instead, they pulled up in front of a town home complex and came to an abrupt halt.

 

“Casa de Mista,” Giorno said. “Get out, fuck face.”

 

“Thanks for the ride,” Mista said, dopey smile on his face. He looked very much ill. “See you tomorrow?”

 

“Make that Monday,” Giorno said. “You’re gonna need to sleep for a long time.”

 

Mista crawled out of the back seat and made his way up the yard, cutting across the lawn. Unlike Narancia, he had the sense to pull his keys from his pocket before getting to the front door and gave Giorno a little salute before shutting it behind him.

 

“You live by Memorial Park, yeah?” Giorno asked. “Off Roosevelt.”

 

“Yeah,” Fugo said. “How the fuck do you know that?”

 

“I picked you up yesterday, dipshit. You gave Mista your address.”

 

“Whatever,” Fugo said. “I don’t understand why you didn’t just drop me off first, I live the closest.”

 

“Shut up,” Giorno said darkly.

 

Fugo shut up. Streets whipped past him and became increasingly familiar. Soon, the shabby pawn shops and shuttered stores that lined his street came into view.

 

Giorno shoved the car aggressively into park and stared at him.

 

“Thought you had money,” he said flatly. “Coming from Saint Jude’s.”

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be Italian?” Fugo asked, sneering. “Fuck off.”

 

Giorno blushed a little the apples of his cheeks flushing a light pink. Fugo wasn’t sure if he wanted to pinch him or punch him.

 

“My step dad’s Italian,” he said. “My mom’s Japanese, and my dad was some British fuck.”

 

“Thanks for the life story,” Fugo said coldly.

 

“You fucking asked,” Giorno said, sounding almost hurt. “Fuck you, get out of my car you stupid fucking piece of shit.”

 

He reached across the gearshift and shoved Fugo’s shoulder, holding for a beat too long. They eyes met, and both boys ducked away, embarrassed.

 

“Fuck you,” Fugo spat. “I hope you crash your car and die.”

 

“Dramatic, much.” Giorno laughed. “Eat shit, murderer.”

 

Fugo’s head slammed against the door but he pulled away before Giorno could see the look on his face.

 

“Fuck you, faggot,” Fugo said through the open door. “Fucking piece of shit.”

 

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Giorno smirked at him, eyes burning dangerously. “Cocksucker.”

 

“You know what?” Fugo slammed his hand back on the door frame just as Giorno slammed it shut. “Fuck!”

 

The door had bounced back, but not before it had thoroughly smashed his fingers.

 

“What the fuck, man?” Fugo yelled, clutching his hand. “I think you broke my goddamn hand.”

 

“Deal with it,” Giorno said. “See you Monday.”

 

He peeled away, leaving Fugo clutching purple fingers, tears streaming down his face.

 

#

 

He had managed to dig up some bandages and medical tape and figured that was enough. It wasn’t like they could do much more for him at Urgent Care anyway, and at least he could save a long walk and a few hundred dollars.

 

Fucking Giorno. At least it was his right hand, so he could still do his work. He let it hang limply by his side as he filled out worksheet after worksheet. He had an essay for AP Lang, and he knew that it was going to take him forever, hunting and pecking with a single hand. Every time he fucking breathed, he cursed the Giovanna name for producing such a piece of shit.

 

Well, the Giovanna line wasn’t directly responsible for Giorno, but he didn’t have anyone else to curse. He hoped Giorno suffered half as much as he did, that he felt that same pain Fugo did, red hot and electric burning him from the inside out. What right did he fucking have? What right did he have to accuse Fugo of murder, call him filthy names?

 

That little shit didn’t have a leg to stand on. Fugo squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to cry. The pain didn’t bother him; he was too far gone to register it as much more than an ache in the background. Rather, Giorno’s words ricocheted around his head, embedding themselves in every nook and cranny available.

 

He slammed his laptop shut and placed his head on the table.

 

His body screamed for food, but he wouldn’t relent. It must be past noon, as the light was beginning to stream in from his western window, but he didn’t fucking care. Stupid pieces of fucking shit didn’t get to eat lunch, no matter how much they wanted it. Stupid pieces of fucking shit also weren’t allowed to take Advil or aspirin or anything to make the shipwreck in their heads die down.

 

All stupid pieces of fucking shit were allowed to do was sit there and pity themselves like the stupid pieces of fucking shit they were.

 

#

 

When Fugo finally woke up, it was dark, and there was a siren wailing in the background. He hadn’t managed to get anything done.

 

“Fuck,” he hissed through the pain. His hand radiated pain throughout his whole body, waves of nauseas overtaking him with each throb.

 

He turned around to look at the microwave. It read 7:04.

 

“Fuck,” he said again. He must have passed out, probably a mix of pain, hunger, and hangover. “Fuck.”

 

Fugo knew that if he didn’t eat something soon he would get very, very sick.

 

He stood up and made his way to the fridge. Empty as always. He pulled out his phone and checked his bank account. He had fifteen dollars, and it wasn’t payday for another week.

 

He started to cry again, back sliding down the fridge, trying to hold himself together as his body wracked his sobs.

 

He was a mess. He was alone, all alone. He shook and shook and shook.

 

He tried to remember the warmth of his life Before. The way the central heating flowed through the house, his bed a pile of duvets and quilts, the flat screen TV in his room, all the food he could eat. He didn’t have to think about things, about PE uniforms, or groceries or bills or furniture. He’d spent the first month on his own living in an entirely empty apartment, and it wasn’t until his case worker said that they might have to send him back in for review that he caved. He remembered the walk to Goodwill, the look of pity on the employee’s face as he struggled to think of a way to get the furniture to his house.

 

If he closed his eyes, he wasn’t in the studio apartment in the shitty side of town, he was back in his family’s McMansion, seven bedrooms, eight baths, sprawling swimming pool and private tennis court. He was back in his room with his en suite bathroom and walk-in closet the same size as his current apartment. There was the cleaning lady and the gardener and his mom’s nutritionist who made him breakfast in the mornings and packed little bento boxes for lunch.  

 

He physically ached. It was all his fault. He’d tarnished the Fugo name.

 

Fugo. What a disgusting sounding word. He wished he could distance himself from his stupid fucking name. Pannacotta, pudding. His name was an embarrassment, perfectly fit for the kind of fuckup he was. His brothers had normal names, normal lives. They were in college now, majoring in business or poly-sci, preparing to make the most of themselves. And Fugo. A high school Junior with an exemplary GPA and nothing ahead of him.

 

“Whatever,” he muttered. What use was it throwing himself a pity party?

 

He walked over to his dresser and pulled on a jacket. He pulled on his Chuck Taylor’s but struggled to tie them.

 

He opened the latch, slid the deadbolt, and turned the lock. The door gave way under his trembling hands, and he made his way outside. Even in the hallway, the wind nipped at his ears, and he wished he’d brought a hat.

 

Fugo locked the door behind him and trudged down the stairs. It was late enough in the year that the sun was starting to set earlier and earlier, and it was near dark by the time he set down the street.

 

He walked until he made it to Truong’s Donuts. He pushed the door open, and tried to avoid eye contact with the girl at the register.

 

She knew him, of course, a year below at school, one of those girls always giggling and making Tik Toks during lunch.

 

“Can I have some day olds?” Fugo asked, staring at the chipped linoleum floor. “However much I can get for a dollar.”

 

“Sure,” she chirped. She ducked into the back and called something in Vietnamese. After getting some confirmation, she returned holding a pink box filled with leftovers. “Don’t bother paying.”

 

Something in Fugo burned. It was his goddamn money. He wasn’t going to take charity from this girl simply because she pitied him. But after she shoved the box into his free hand, he realized he couldn’t get the money out of his wallet and stumbled red faced out of the store.

 

He wanted to peek into the box as he walked, but his right hand hurt too much to do much more than lie limply at his side. He held the box close enough to his chest he could smell sweet dough, and his mouth began to water.

 

He propped the box up on his knee and fished his keys out of his pocket. He shuffled with it and finally got the lock and deadbolt open.

 

He tumbled into the apartment, box in hand, face red with the chill. How long ago had it been that he was curled up in Mista’s lap, belly warm with drink? And how much longer before that had he been trapped under Trish’s bed, unable to move?

 

Despite the open floor plan (the affectionate way he thought of his single room apartment) he felt as trapped as he had under her bed. He could still hear the echo of Narancia’s voice calling him a monster, telling Trish how Fugo ruined his life.

 

He set the box down on the table and flipped open the lid. Inside were an assortment of croissants, donuts, and a couple of bagels. Fugo closed his eyes and thanked God or the devil, or really just the Truong family for providing him with a few days’ worth of food.

 

He reached in and grabbed whatever his good hand found, a jelly filled donut covered in powdered sugar. He tore into it like he hadn’t eaten in days, which wasn’t far from the truth. He finished it before he realized and ate about three more before he finally felt the growl of hunger subside in his stomach.

 

In its stead, however, was the growing pressure of being too full, and another wave of nausea rolled over him. He managed to lurch to the toilet and flip the seat up before throwing up into the porcelain bowl.

 

His mouth tasted like bitter acid and sweat ran down his forehead. He felt saliva build in his mouth, and he positioned himself, face so close to the water he could almost feel it splash.

 

A couple more heaves and he felt better, his stomach clear and his breathing normal. Hunger began to pang at him again, but it wasn’t enough to overcome how ill he felt. He crawled over to the sink and fished a cup out of the sink. He filled it with the tap and drank it in greedy gulps, water running down his chin and onto his shirt.

 

He finished a few more glasses and stared into his warped reflection in the metal of the sink.

 

“I need a shower,” he muttered. “Fuck.”

 

He shucked off his shirt, pants and underwear in quick succession, leaving a trail of laundry leading up to the closet of a bathroom. He peeled off his socks and cranked the tap on.

 

The water was cold, but it was always sort of cold. He wrapped his arms around himself and avoided the mirror, letting the small room fill up with steam.

 

He eventually remembered he was going to need a towel and ducked into the main room to grab it. He surveyed the apartment and found the towel in a pile on clothes by his bed. He picked it up and sniffed it. It was mildewy, but everything he owned was.

 

He checked the water. It was finally warm enough to get in. He unwrapped his right hand and tried not to look at his swollen fingers.

 

The heat of the shower was nearly enough to knock him over. He stood under the shower head and let the thin stream of water wash over him like a baptism, blood running in streaks down the drain. He hadn’t realized how much was still caked on his hands.

 

Everything throbbed and ached and hurt in ways he hadn’t felt in years. His fist pressed against the wall, he closed his eyes and willed his mind not to wander, to focus on the pain like an anchor, holding his thoughts in place.

 

It was almost too much. Fugo felt tears push up at his eyes and wrapped his bad arm around himself.

 

He began to sob, the sound muffled by the falling of the water. He hurt. He hurt so bad.

 

Even so, standing there in the water as it quickly cooled down, he reminded himself that he deserved it. He deserved every bit of agony that had been handed to him.

Notes:

torturing fugo>>> literally any other activity. I wrote like 4000 words (seventeen pages) yesterday, all of which were just me being relentlessly cruel towards our poor boy. Consider this a sort of turning point. Things are only going to get more and more nasty from here, and while I worry about delicate sensibilities, the sheer joy I get from writing such horrible things outweighs any sadness or shame for readers lost.

It's funny, because initially this was going to be a fun, light hearted high school AU about Narancia trying to win Fugo's heart back by getting close with Mista, but then I finished the show and realised how much more fun I could have.

As always, thanks to @themadamepsychosis for the beta read and inspiration, and please go check out her work as it's basically a better, more concise version of mine.

Chapter 5: Downhill

Summary:

CW: EXPLICIT. this chapter is A LOT, please be warned. This is where I start getting into the truly fucked up shit, including slight mentions of Fugo's anime backstory, a scene where Fugo jacks off incredibly masochistically, mentions of religious guilt and trauma, and the same general bullshittery of Giorno torturing poor Fugo. Why he does this, you might ask? Well consider this: Giorno was not raised with any sort of positive affection, and this is really the only way he knows how to communicate with people.
Not to give too much away, but I do start getting deeper into abuse here, and I just wanted to let people know beforehand. I'm aware this fic isn't particularly fucked up on the scale of insane fucked up shit on here, but do know that I am trying to hit you in the heart, and will pull no punches. this is as much masochistic catharsis for me as it is a tragedy for you.
XOXOXO,
toothfaerie

Notes:

chapter title is Downhill by Lincoln.

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

Chapter Text

 After his shower, he passed out naked in his bed, tugging his blanket around himself like a cocoon. He slept on his back, bad hand pressed flat against his chest, moonlight slanting through the broken blinds. He awoke the next morning to a stiffness, an inability to move his fingers completely. Even looking at them through the bandages, it was clear they were swollen far beyond their normal size.

 

“Fuck,” he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Fuck.”

 

His apartment was cold, far too cold to not be wearing anything, but Fugo didn’t fucking care. The cool was bliss against his throbbing fingers, and he shuffled over to his table to sit down.

 

After eating two bagels and a croissant, Fugo began his “medial examination”.

 

He slowly unwrapped the bandage, looking at each finger with heightened curiosity.

 

It had been ages since he’d broken anything, longer still that he’d fucked something up this bad. At least this was marginally better than broken ribs, because this he could splint and file away. Those were just months of agonizing pain with no relief.

 

He made his way into the bathroom to inspect himself more thoroughly. If he stood on the lip of the bathtub, he got a full view of his skinny frame, from greasy hair to lanky toes.

 

He went from his head down. His hair was dirty, hanging thinly around his gaunt face. His neck was clear of any bruising, as were his arms and chest. His right hand was about twice the size of his left, and about fifteen shades darker. He moved his hand in front of his face and poked at his fingers. Pinky, ring, and middle were the worst, the deepest purple. His index and thumb appeared fine, but they were still sore.

 

He tried to wiggle them and winced as pain lanced through him. His eyes watered, and he had to bite his cheek to keep from screaming.

 

His left hand was braced against the wall and did little to support him as the pain grew more intense. With each movement of his hand, he felt like was in less and less control. It wasn’t until he allowed himself to slide all the way down into a sitting position that he took himself in his hands and began to stroke.

 

He timed the pumps of his hand with the thudding aches of pain. His eyes closed, all he could see was purple and blond and Giorno, the way his face twisted when he called Fugo those names.

 

It wasn’t very long before the lurch of orgasm encroached on him, and he felt himself sputter onto his hand and chest. The pain was indistinguishable from the white-hot pleasure, and he wasn’t sure if he was laughing or crying as he chased the coattails of his orgasm.

 

“God, I’m a fuckup,” Fugo whispered, examining his fingers covered in sticky white cum. “Jesus fuck, what is wrong with me?”

 

He remembered fooling around with Narancia, hands under covers and mouths pressed to each other’s necks. The way he always wanted more, begging Narancia to bite him, pull his hair, hurt him. The way Narancia looked so uncomfortable and upset, the way he closed his eyes and whispered “bitch” in the breathiest voice imaginable.

 

“It doesn’t work when you say it like that,” Fugo said nastily. “Say it like you mean it.”

 

“But I don’t!” Narancia cried. “I don’t think you’re a bitch or a slut or a whore. You’re Fugo.”

 

“Whatever,” Fugo said, tucking himself back in his pants. “Guess I’ll just blow you.”

 

“When you say it like that, I don’t really want you to,” said Narancia. “Look, why don’t you just go home.”

 

“Fine,” Fugo snapped. “Guess you never really wanted me here in the first place.”

 

“That’s not fair,” Narancia said desperately. “You know I want this as much as you do, I just can’t be, well…be like that.”

 

“You don’t fucking care about me.” Fugo threw open his bedroom door. “See you on Monday.”

 

A fresh wave of shame washed over him. How could he be so callous? Narancia was the only person who would ever love him, and he’d pushed him away. Why did he have to be so selfish?

 

Fugo flipped onto his knees and turned on the tap. Cold water rushed above him, and he let himself be engulfed by the freezing wave. This was penance, was it not? A baptism of ice to numb him from his shame.

 

#

 

He got the rest of his work done. It was hard, and took him even longer than normal, but by six o’clock on Sunday, he closed his laptop and sat back in his chair.

 

His room looked even more bleak than it had before. There wasn’t much on the walls, a couple of paintings he’d bought from the Goodwill, and the dusty remnants of where Narancia’s art projects used to hang.

 

Narancia was a spectacularly terrible artist, his skill little more than that of a fifth grader. Most of what he’d drawn Fugo had been ridiculous, sharks riding skateboards and hamsters shooting each other with poorly rendered guns, but he hung it on his walls regardless, glad to have something that he felt was his own.

 

After he’d kicked Narancia out for the last time, he’d torn them from the wall and ripped them into little pieces. A couple of said pieces were on the floor by the fridge, and he walked over to pick one up. On the back was a math problem Narancia had gotten spectacularly wrong, and the front was half of a crudely rendered stick figure. An ache in his hand and heart reminded him that this was likely from his favorite piece of all, a little picture of their stick figure selves holding hands in a grassy field, and a sky that ended an inch down from the top of the paper.

 

Fugo willed himself not to cry. It wasn’t fucking worth it. It was a stupid scrap of paper and he was a stupid piece of shit.

 

He let the paper go and watched as it floated gently to the floor. He wondered why he didn’t fall like that, if someone let him go from a height why wouldn’t he sink down so softly.

 

Something about terminal velocity. Ants were small enough that even at terminal velocity, they still wouldn’t die on impact. That meant something, being so small and insignificant you couldn’t even fucking die.

 

That’s really what he was like, so meaningless and unimportant it wasn’t even worth it to die. It would just force people to mourn him, to pretend they would miss him.

 

He wasn’t headed to any better place, even if he believed that there was one. Narancia tried to assure him on many occasions that they’d all live in Heaven together with his mom, and they could drink as much Redbull and watch as many slasher pics as they wanted, sitting in the kingdom of Heaven at God’s side.

 

Fugo had tried to explain to him that even if God was real, and even if Heaven was a place people could go to, he was never, ever, going to meet Narancia there. The weight of his guilt and his sins hung over him, a ball and chain rung around his neck.

 

“But I’m Catholic,” Narancia tried to argue. “If you accept God in your heart, he’ll forgive all your sins.”

 

There were some sins best not forgiven, thought Fugo. And some sinners beyond redemption.

 

Fugo collected himself and managed to make his way back to his bed. His clothes were a messy pile on the floor, and it was about time he did laundry.

 

He leaned down and tried to swipe it all up with one hand. He had a bag somewhere, mesh drawstring with a thick black strap he could sling over his shoulder. It had to be there somewhere. It wasn’t like there were a lot of places for it to get lost.

 

He dug around under his bed until he found it. He fumbled with the cord to get it open and tried to scoop his laundry in with his good hand.

 

A good ten minutes later, Fugo gave up and decided to just wash whatever he’d managed to fit into the bag. He slung it over his shoulder and toed on his flipflops. He grabbed a couple of quarters from the dish beside his door and dropped them into his pocket with his keys. After the delicate dance of his locks, he pushed out into the hallway and trudged down the stairs.

 

The elevator was broken as it nearly always was, so he walked down four flights of stairs to the basement. Four. How much Mista hated that number. He knew it was an eastern superstition, stemming from the fact that the number four and the word death were similar in Mandarin. He wondered how long Mista had been afflicted, if he’d refused to eat anything sliced in fourths as a child, or if something had happened—

 

He would snap his rubber band, but his hands were still full. Mista wasn’t a fuckup like him. Mista wasn’t a disgusting sinner like he was. Mista was just a weird guy with some weird superstitions.

 

He entered the laundry room and found it blissfully empty. He wasn’t sure if he could handle anyone else. He opened the washer and threw in his clothes. He opened the cupboard and found the communal detergent. Well, it wasn’t communal so much as it was labelled “5A—DO NOT USE” but Fugo helped himself anyway. He was pretty sure everyone did. If the people in 5A cared enough, they could bother to lug it up and down the stairs like everyone else.

 

It had been years since he’d been living along, and he still hadn’t quite mastered the art of laundry. It hadn’t helped that there’d been maids growing up, scooping up his dirty clothes as soon as he shed them and sending them off to dry cleaning. He poured a liberal amount into the machine and slammed the top down. He shoved in the quarters and hit the buttons that seemed right (Cotton, Sturdy, Medium, Stain Cycle) and propped himself on top of the machine to wait.

 

The apartment Wi-Fi reached the basement, but only just barely. He had enough reception to get his word game app up and running, but not so much he was plagued with ads. It was another forty minutes before the wash cycle was over, and an hour after that before it was dry, so Fugo settled in against the rhythmic thumping of the wash, trying to slide out of himself as his clothes spun and spun beneath him.

 

#

 

When Fugo woke up on Monday morning, he realized how truly fucked he actually was.

 

Without the pounding headache of the hangover to distract, the pain in his hand was unbearable.

 

He managed to load all of his things into his backpack and head out the door for school. He’d managed to choke down another donut, and he could almost feel it being torn apart in his stomach.

 

The walk was long and cold, and Fugo wished he had a heavier jacket. The one he’d been using had a nasty rip in the seam and had gotten to a point where no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t zip it more than halfway up.

 

He’d layered about three of his thickest sweaters over a long sleeve shirt, but his thin jeans did nothing to stop the cold from permeating his bones. Even his feet felt frozen, little more than thin cotton socks and ratty converse between him and the outside air.

 

Despite his discomfort, he made it to school on time. As he made his way down the hallways to his first period, he felt the eyes of his classmates follow him.

 

 The fuck is wrong with his hand?

 

What a stupid piece of shit.

 

I heard he went to Trish’s party even though he wasn’t invited.

 

“Shut up,” he whispered, gathering even more attention. “Fuck.”

 

The day was long and arduous, but as long as he kept his right hand under the table, he was safe. He knew the clock was ticking, and it was only a matter of time before it was time for art and he’d have to face Giorno and Mista again.

 

He hoped that for the sake of whatever was holy they didn’t bother him today, that Mista would finally decide Fugo was a waste of time and spend the rest of the year badgering Trish and throwing paper airplanes across the classroom.

 

No such luck. When had he ever had luck?

 

He slipped into the room as the tardy bell rang, scouring the room for an empty table. For some cruel reason, every one was full save the tables Trish occupied, and the one where Mista and Giorno sat.

 

He weighed his options: Trish probably hated him; after everything Narancia had told her on Friday, it would be stupid of her not to, but at least she wouldn’t be as viscerally cruel as Giorno.

 

“Fugo!” Mista called, and he realized the illusion of choice. “Come over here.”

 

The teacher shot him a nasty glare as she continued to call roll, but it was nothing compared to the look of contempt on Giorno’s face as Fugo sat down across from him.

 

The vitriol in his eyes was enough to send another wave of pain through his system, his hand burning bright hot for the briefest of seconds.

 

Fugo banked on Mista being unobservant. He positioned himself so his bad hand was under the table, hidden out of view.

 

“Hey Fugo, what’s wrong?” Giorno asked. No such fucking luck. “Is your hand okay?”

 

“His hand is fine, dipshit,” Mista said.

 

“No, his other hand,” Giorno gestured under the table. “Is something wrong?”

 

Fugo cursed Giorno in every way he knew how. His greatest wish in the world was for Giorno to be smote in the most painful way possible, maybe dying of some viral disease that tore him apart, cell by cell.

 

“Oh shit, yeah,” Mista said. “Holy—Jesus fucking…Fugo what the hell happened?”

 

Fugo had placed his hand on the table and the revulsion radiating off Mista was nauseating. He knew he was despicable, he didn’t need to be reminded.

 

“I fell,” Fugo said lamely, knowing exactly how that sounded. “Shoelaces, stairs, whatever.”

 

“Are you sure someone didn’t hurt you?” Giorno said, cruelty in his eyes. “That looks like maybe someone—”

 

“Shut the fuck up.” Fugo’s voice came out in a low growl. “I’m fine.”

 

“Dude, you need to go to the hospital.” Mista stood up. “Hey, Teach? Fugo here needs to go to the hospital.”

 

The teacher walked over to their table, but the expression on her face immediately shifted when she saw Fugo’s mangled hand.

 

“Oh my God,” she said, covering her mouth in revulsion. “When did that happen?”

 

“Saturday,” Fugo said thinly. “I’m fine.”

 

“Dear God,” she ran to the class phone and punched in some numbers. “Hi, I’m calling about Pannacotta Fugo. Something is seriously wrong with his hand. No, yeah, I think it’s very broken. No, he seems very cavalier about it. Yes, I’ll send him to you straight away.”

 

“You know, Fugo,” Giorno said, malice sparkling in those green goddamn eyes of his. “If someone did this to you, you need to tell an adult.”

 

“No one did shit,” Fugo pressed his eyes closed and willed everything to fall away. Why hadn’t anyone noticed when he’d needed them to? Thirteen with purple bruises running down the sides of his neck and the inside of his thighs, the coughing wheeze that came with cracked ribs and frequent dislocation. Now he wanted nothing more than to sink into the background. He knew it was futile, that even if some adult were to see the harm, they’d never put two and two together, and it would take something violent and drastic to make any sort of change.

 

He wondered what his parents would say if he came home looking the way he did, skinny, anemic, hand thoroughly destroyed. He imagined they’d lock him away like they always did, shutting him from the public eye until he was presentable again.

 

“Mista, will you walk him to the counselor’s office?” The teacher had made her way back to their table and pressed a soft palm onto Fugo’s shoulder. “Pannacotta, sweetie, I hope you feel better.”

 

He managed to grunt out a monosyllabic thanks, but he knew something deep within him had snapped. As Mista led him down the hallway, he saw little more than the blur of floor tiles and Mista’s fancy shoes.

Notes:

FEEL THE THINGS I CANNOT. also,,
the part when he's looking at Narancia's drawing on the fridge made *me* tear up which is insane because I DO NOT cry (looking at a year and a half here) but the part after it is a little bit lifted from @themadamepsychosis's fic called Fugo Vibes Too Hard (or something similar) go read it on desktop (it doesn't work on mobile because it's a comic and the images get cropped funny) but that made me actually cry.

Chapter 6: Trying Soda

Summary:

In which Fugo gets fired, goes to a "kickback" and steals an AA chip.

Notes:

chapter title comes from Trying Soda (I Know You So Well) by Worst Party Ever. Maybe the lyrics don't line up super well, but it had Fugo getting contact high at a party vibes, so you know.

Anyway, drink and smoke responsibly, and don't drive while under the influence. Bad fucking news.

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

Chapter Text

The counselor had worried, begging him to let her call his parents. He’d vehemently refused, and no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t break the law and tell them anything. She’d sent him to the nurse’s office who handed him a bag of ice and told him to go to the hospital. He’d asked politely for some more bandages, and she’d reluctantly complied.

 

 

In the end, there was little they could do. Being emancipated meant that any responsibility landed on him, and that no matter how badly the school wanted to prove otherwise, Fugo was essentially an adult in the eyes of the law.

 

He made it back to art class just as the school day wound down. He resumed his seat across from Giorno who looked at him like he’d trailed in dog shit.

 

“Why are you still here?” he asked nastily, some of his demeanor dropped despite Mista’s presence. “Shouldn’t they have sent you home?”

 

Fugo ignored him. The nurse had also given him an actual splint, so his finger felt slightly better now that it was actually being held in place in some capacity.

 

“Fugo,” Mista said seriously. “I really think you need your parents to pick you up.”

 

Fugo remained silent. He knew Giorno knew more about his personal life than he was letting on, how he knew this, Fugo was unclear. Giorno was needling him, trying to get him to admit things out in the open that would embarrass him in front of Mista. Fugo refused to take the bait.

 

“Fugo,” Giorno said, reaching his hand across the table. “Let me drive you home.”

 

“No.” Fugo said it more forcefully than he’d intended. “I’ll walk.”

 

“Nonsense,” Giorno smiled cruelly. “We’re practically neighbors.”

 

“You guys really are,” Mista said unhelpfully. “Giorno only lives a couple blocks away. I bet he wouldn’t mind at all.”

 

“Thanks,” Fugo said. “But I have work after school.”

 

“Then I’ll drive you to work!” Giorno said. “Seriously, I want to.”

 

“It’s the opposite direction,” Fugo said through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”

 

“No one should have to walk alone in the cold,” Giorno said. “Seriously, I really don’t mind.”

 

At this point, Fugo’s mind reeled. How the ever-loving fuck was he supposed to turn down such an apparently selfless offer? There was no good excuse for turning Giorno down, save openly admitting that it was his fault his hand was broken in the first place.

 

Fugo knew enough to know that this wasn’t some desperate backdoor attempt at an apology, either. This was some fucked up mind game where Giorno won by wielding power over him, locking them in that same metal box that smashed his precious fingers two days before. It was a power play, and Fugo realized he had no way to avoid it.

 

“Fine,” he said, voice small. “Whatever.”

 

“Attaboy,” Mista smiled and clapped his shoulder. “See you tomorrow?”

 

The bell rang, and Mista slid out of his seat with practiced ease, disappearing into the hall before Fugo even had time to process that he’d moved at all.

 

“So,” Giorno said. “It’s just you and me.”

 

Fugo remained silent. He had lost, sure, but he was at least going to lose with dignity. If he could keep his goddamn mouth shut then maybe, just maybe, he could retain the slightest bit of pride.

 

“How was your weekend, huh?” Giorno asked. “I had a nice time.”

 

 Despite that, Fugo noticed him wince as he leaned down to zip up his backpack.

 

“I’m excited to see where you work,” Giorno stood up and gripped his shoulder. “It’s so cool that you’re all responsible.”

 

Fugo gritted his teeth and kept his hands jammed into his pockets. He wanted to start a timer, five minutes to the parking lot, ten in the car, two more for whatever hideous goodbye Giorno had planned, but as soon as the clock started ticking, he knew he was going to screw himself.

 

“Sorry if I upset you,” Giorno said, and Fugo whipped his head around. “Last Saturday, you know how I can be.”

 

Fugo let out a low growl. He was about ten seconds away from ringing the stupid bastard’s fucking neck, and if he didn’t get a handle on himself soon--

 

“Fuck,” Fugo said biting his lip so hard he bled.

 

“What is it?” Giorno asked saccharine sweet. “Can I help you?”

 

“For the love of fuck,” Fugo said, slamming his foot down like a child having a tantrum. “Can you just leave me alone?”

 

“Not a chance,” Giorno said.

 

“Why the fuck not?” They were crowding the doorframe, half in the hallway half in the art room. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

 

“Same could be asked of you,” Giorno said.

 

“You don’t know me,” Fugo yelled, eyes shifting on to him. “You don’t fucking know me.”

 

“Don’t make a scene, Pannacotta,” Giorno said, and Fugo felt his blood run ice cold in his veins.

 

He couldn’t have possibly known, that tone, that inflection. There was no way Giorno goddamn Giovanna knew exactly how to imitate Him, how the words sounded breathy and heavy all at the same time.

 

Giorno clearly clocked that something was wrong, because something indiscernible shifted behind his eyes.

 

“Hm,” Giorno said. “Hurry up then, we don’t want to be late.”

 

#

 

He was fifteen minutes late. His boss was pissed, and only more so when he showed up with a broken hand, barely able to complete a simple task.

 

“I hired you to file,” he said, loosening his tie. “It’s not useful to me if you can’t file.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Fugo sputtered. “I-I’m gonna be better soon.”

 

“Consider coming back when you’re better,” his boss said. “And I’ll see if we still need your help.”

 

One door closed in his face, the other slammed down on his fingers. He couldn’t catch a goddamn break.

 

The afternoon stretched before him, vast and impenetrable.  

 

This is all there is left for me, he thought. Nothing.

 

#

 

The week went by in a hazy blur. He had trouble focusing in class due to the pain and the constant ringing of Giorno’s voice in his ears. Him and Mista sat next to Fugo every day during art, and while Mista blabbered on about whatever it was he talked about, Giorno stared daggers into his chest.

 

Time was liquid. He couldn’t tell when one night ended and the next began. He woke up in the mornings in a pool of sweat and drool and fell back into his bed at night with his teeth chattering.

 

Friday: Mista dragged him along with them afterschool, a not so gentle request to get out of the house and go to a kick back with them. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why the hell Mista thought this was a good idea after last time, before remembering that Mista wasn’t really in the loop about everything that had gone down.

 

The so called “kick back” was at Bruno’s apartment, the opposite side of town as Fugo’s, but equally as shitty.

 

The ceilings felt low, and Fugo felt trapped by the haze of smoke and drink. Narancia and Mista were sharing a blunt in the corner, while he sat on the couch with Abbacchio and Bruno flanking him on either side.

 

Giorno, to Fugo’s relief, couldn’t make it, and for some fucked up reason, Fugo almost missed him.

 

With Mista in the corner getting thoroughly zooted, though, he was essentially alone.

 

“So, Fugo,” Bruno said. “How are you?”

 

“Fine,” he said. Short, clipped. Why were they talking to him?

 

“No, Fugo,” Abbacchio dragged out his name. Foo-goh. “How are you?”

 

“I’m really fine,” Fugo took another sip from the beer in his hand. Blue Moon. Someone had good taste.

 

“You come to our home,” Bruno said, crossing his legs. “and you don’t answer our questions.”

 

Our home. Fugo knew as much about Bruno: he had already been failing senior year when his father died, his mom long gone after a messy divorce. He never graduated and was welcomed back at an arm’s length for the next school year, Leone forever at his side. It was said that Abbacchio had been succeeding in class, an almost straight-A student, but when it was clear Bruno wasn’t going to make it out, he let his own grades go to stay behind.

 

But their home? His brain picked up speed as he continued thinking. Do they—

 

“Fugo,” Abbacchio said. “It’s rude to leave questions unanswered.”

 

Fugo turned his head to stare at that ivory pale face, impeccable purple lipstick and smudged eye shadow. He looked the other way and saw only Bruno’s profile: an aquiline nose and soft, almost pouty lips. His eyes were trained to the other side of the room, watching as Mista and Narancia giggled together.

 

“I’m sorry,” Fugo said, not insincerely. “But I’m telling you, I’m fine.”

 

“How’d you break your hand?” Bruno asked, tearing his eyes away to focus in on Fugo.

 

There was no one there to tell Bruno that wasn’t appropriate, that one shouldn’t ask things like that. Fugo felt the knot in his stomach tighten. He loosened it with a long sip.

 

“I fell,” he said, a comfortable lie well-worn over the years. “Stairs, shoelaces, you know.”

 

“Bullshit,” Abbacchio said sharply, with far more inflection that Fugo had ever heard from him. “How’d you break it?”

 

Fugo tried to shift away from him, and only managed to push himself into Bruno’s lap. His strong hands gripped Fugo’s shoulders and kept him in place. He leaned down and whispered in Fugo’s ear: “All we ask for is honesty.”

 

Honesty. A moral tenet he had no leg to stand on. He’d long ago shed any shame or guilt about lying but sitting there with the two boys pressed against him, he felt nerves flare in the back of his throat.

 

“Giorno,” Fugo said quietly. “He slammed my hand in the car door.”

 

Abbacchio let out an appreciative hum. “Cheers, Fugo.”

 

Before he knew what was happening, Abbacchio produced a gunmetal flask and tapped it against Fugo’s bottle. He didn’t break eye contact as he took a deep swig.

 

“That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Bruno asked, smiling. He let go of Fugo’s shoulder and ruffled his hair affectionately.  

 

“You’re not going to…” Fugo started, but he didn’t feel the need to finish.

 

“Have a little faith, Fugo,” Abbacchio drawled. “Relax, enjoy yourself.”

 

Bruno produced a beer from somewhere and handed it to Abbacchio, who in turn wrenched the cap off with his teeth. Fugo brought his hand to his mouth in an empathetic tug.

 

“Cheers again,” Bruno said, taking the beer and banging it against Fugo’s. “To Fugo.”

 

“To Fugo,” Abbacchio echoed.

 

Fugo stood up a little abruptly, but neither of the boys moved. They both nursed their drinks like they knew something he didn’t. A chill crept down his spine.

 

“Bathroom?” he asked, voice small. Bruno pointed at a door.

 

He had to step over Mista and Narancia to get there, inhaling the sweet stench of the smoke for a second before slamming the door shut. He could have been imagining it, but he swore Narancia’s eyes were on him the whole time. He knew enough not to worry about him reading lips; that was a bit far out his capabilities. Instead, Fugo worried that he’d picked up on something emotional, instinctual. Narancia wasn’t much in the way of intelligence, but he was an empath at his core. Despite his bravado and act he insisted on putting on, he was a sweet tender kid.

 

He still had his beer in his hand, so he set it down on the sink. He looked around and saw the usual: a grimy toilet, plastic shower curtain, two tooth brushes in a cup.

 

He opened the medicine cabinet. Inside was some mouthwash, toothpaste, and floss. Beside it was an unmarked bottle filled with pills, a Bic lighter, and a small wooden box.

 

He opened the box and found loose bud and some paraphernalia. He put it back and skimmed the shelves for anything else he’d missed.

 

At the very top was something that sent a delicious spark of joy into his stomach.

 

Jackpot.

 

A little chip, bronze and emblazoned with a triangle.

 

“To thine own self be true,” he read aloud. Without thinking, he slipped it in his pocket.

 

At that point, the beer had really begun to catch up to him, so he flipped the toilet seat up to pee. He then washed his usable hand and sat on the lip of the bathtub.

 

Sitting down like this, he could only just make out the blonde of his hair in the mirror, greasy and stringy, in the matted clumps it always seemed to rest in.

 

He pressed his good hand to his face and let out a quiet groan. With the alcohol in his body, the pain had lessened to a slight burn, but his stomach was still tied up with stress.

 

He had just told Bruno and Abbacchio that Giorno had broken his hand, and they’d accepted it without batting an eye. Either they knew enough about Giorno to know this was something he was capable of, or they already knew.

 

The latter scared him. If Giorno had told them about that, what else had he shared, and with whom?

 

For a second, he doubted Mista, wondering if that broad smile was as much of an act as Giorno’s was, a mask pulled over a visage of subtle cruelty, but he shook the thought out of his head.

 

Mista was too terrible a liar, and far too earnest to sit on something like that.

 

But did Narancia know? And did it make him happy?

 

He imagined Giorno telling Narancia, a whisper in his ear, the way his lips brushed over Narancia’s cheekbones, the smug smile he would wear.

 

Fugo squeezed his bad hand and yelped at the pain.

 

No use thinking these kinds of things. Giorno knew, Abbacchio knew, Bruno knew, it was safe to assume no one else did. Whether he’d been the first to inform them was unimportant. It would look as bad on Giorno as it did on Fugo if it came out, and he knew Giorno was too intelligent to let something so dangerous out into the open.

 

“You good in there?” Mista’s voice, lower and deeper than usual, slid into his ears. “It’s been kind of a while.”

 

“Yeah,” Fugo called, his reverie shattered. “I’m coming out.”

 

“Coming out,” Mista snorted as Fugo opened the door and he felt a pang of anger flash through him. “Get it?”

 

Mista had nudged Narancia who was looking at everything in the room except Fugo.

 

“Knock it off,” Narancia said. “It was just a joke.”

 

The second half of his statement was directed at Fugo, but he still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

 

“I know,” Fugo said, trying to keep his voice steady. His hand still ached from when he had flexed it. “Whatever.”

 

Fugo glanced over at the couch and found Bruno and Abbacchio intertwined, mouths locked hungrily together.

 

He walked back across the living room and sat in an arm chair by the front door. It was just past eight, and the two beers he’d had on an empty stomach were enough to fill him with helium, lightening up the heaviness in his head.

 

A knock at the door.

 

Panic flashed through him. Giorno.

 

“I got it,” Mista said, gathering his lanky limbs to stand up straight.

 

“Hurry,” the voice decidedly did not belong to Giorno, much too high and melodic to be anyone other than Trish. He hadn’t realized she’d been invited. “It’s fucking freezing.”

 

Mista threw the door open, and Trish stepped in with a huff. She wrapped her arms around him like he was a heat lamp and continued to cling to him as he tried to shut the door.

 

“Hey,” Narancia said from the floor by the open window. “How are you?”

 

“Whatever,” Trish said, finally unlatching herself from Mista. “I need a jacket.”

 

“Here,” Mista pulled his hoodie off and handed it to her. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath and sweat glistened on his bare chest.

 

Fugo tried to snap the rubber band, but remembered he’d taken it off. He bit the inside of his cheek instead.

 

“Hey, Fugo,” Trish said, catching him by surprise. “What’s up?”

 

“Oh,” Fugo said, unsure of how to answer. “How about you?”

 

“Oh, I’m fine,” Trish said. She swung her torso around so the sleeves of Mista’s sweater flopped. “So tired though.”

 

“Hm,” Fugo said.

 

“Hey Trish,” Narancia called from across the room. “Come settle an argument for Mista and me.”

 

“What is it?” she asked, and Narancia began to launch into an explanation of an image they’d found on Instagram of a furry sea creature. Mista was convinced it was a sea otter, but Narancia vehemently disagreed.

 

“That’s not what sea otters looked like,” he whined, waving the phone in front of her face. “It’s something else for sure, like a sea lion.”
            “I’m telling you,” Mista said. “Sea lions are those fat fucks, this is clearly a sea otter.”

 

“Guys,” Trish said. “Did you read the caption?”

 

“Yeah,” they said in unison.

 

“It says right here that they’re sea otters,” Trish said flatly. “Like, right fucking here.”

 

“No way!” Narancia pouted. “That’s not true.”

 

“I have nothing to gain by lying to you,” Trish said. “It’s right here.”

 

“Fucking told you so,” Mista cheered, throwing his hands in the air and dancing in little circles. “Stupid dipshit.”

 

“Fuck off,” Narancia said. “The words were separated or something.”

 

Fugo was well acquainted to Narancia’s apparent illiteracy. He had untreated dyslexia, but when Fugo had been there to read things aloud to him and coach him through the letters, he’d managed.

 

For the first time, Fugo wondered how Narancia was handling school this year. Some of the rush fell away, and he felt sick.

 

“You’re all ridiculous,” Trish said, sitting down next to them. “Give me that.”

 

She held the lighter to the end of the blunt and took a deep hit. She blew out the smoke in a thin stream that disappeared out the window.

 

A few more minutes, and Fugo was on the verge of falling asleep. There was enough second-hand smoke that hadn’t quite made it out the crack in the window, sifting through the air that Fugo felt the low thrum of the high in his belly.

 

For the first time all week, Fugo fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

Notes:

Lots of little notes:

~Got a $100 dollar holiday bonus from work which was cool
~I'm a big fan of #keepbrunoweird and will be keeping insane!bruabba and am not currently accepting criticism about it
~abbacchio is an alcoholic? although it's not canon, I know it's a pretty popular headcanon, and honestly I don't think at this point in the fic he's recovering the way he is in most of the other stuff I've read. As much as we love Bruno, they're honestly kind of going down a dark path, but hopefully I'll get to touch on that later
~not very much FuGio in this chapter, but don't worry I'm getting there
~also don't worry about me i have VERY unhealthy relationship expectations and honestly want a boy to treat me like Giorno treats Fugo so psychoanalyze that I guess

anyway you didn't need to know any of that,
XOXO
toothfaerie

Chapter 7: Twelve Feet Deep

Summary:

in which some tension is resolved, and even more is created.

Notes:

TW: again, I refrain from being explicit with the details of abuse, but like, we're starting to get into it. Also, i really REALLY fuck over Fugo, and yeah,,

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

Chapter Text

Mista dropped him off at his apartment on Saturday morning. Fugo waved awkwardly at the car and made his way back to his room, weighed down by the hangover.

He had never spent this much time getting fucked up before. In the past, the closest he ever got to partying was staying up all night in Narancia’s room, marathoning movies and drinking energy drinks. The caffeine always kept Fugo up, and he found himself wandering the halls of the house late into the night. Narancia, on the other hand, had the inverse effect, and after a can or two began to drift off.

“Why do you even drink those?” Fugo asked one of those days, Narancia’s head in his lap. “If they just make you sleepy?”

“I like the way they taste,” Narancia said. “It’s like eating electricity.”

“The fuck?” Fugo laughed, tousling his hair. “You’re incomprehensible.”

“What does that mean again?” Narancia asked.

“Like, impossible to comprehend.” Fugo brushed a thumb across his cheek.

“In English, asshole,” Narancia said, sticking his tongue out. “You always use those words with me—”

“It’s not just with you—” Fugo started.

“No, no,” Narancia laughed. “You and your 152 IQ.”

“Incomprehensible means hard to understand. Like you say things that are such fucking nonsense I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“Was that so hard?” Narancia twisted himself and pushed Fugo down to the floor. “Now shut up and kiss me, nerd.”

They’d kissed the way they always kissed, messily, sloppily, at a leisure. Time was nothing to them. The night stretched infinite in front of them. They were young and in love and it would obviously last forever.

Fugo dropped his keys on the floor.

As he bent down to pick them up, he saw a flash of something in the corner of his eye. He quickly shifted his weight so he was squatting, and launched himself knee-first into the doorframe in the process.

After collecting himself, he turned to see what had disturbed him, and saw that it was nothing more than a cockroach skittering along the floor.

“Fuck,” he whispered. He entered his apartment and flopped down on his bed.

Despite sleeping well the night before, he still felt the constant ache of exhaustion that followed him everywhere.

He breathed in, and nearly recoiled at the stench of his sheets. He wasn’t sure how long it’d been since he’d changed them, and longer still since he’d washed them. He was going to have to make another trip to the laundry room.

A few hours and a few chores later, he was sitting shirtless at his dining table scooping dry cereal into his mouth with a spoon. He scrolled idly on Instagram, ignoring all the posts from people he knew.

This was going to be another long weekend.

#

Giorno managed to corner him in the library on Monday.

“Hey, Dahmer,” he said casually, sliding into the chair next to him. “How was your weekend?”

Fugo slammed his book shut and stared straight forward. He could smell Giorno, soft, clean, downy, like fresh sheets.

He really missed his rubber band.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Giorno poked his bad hand and Fugo couldn’t help but let out a little noise of discomfort. “Oh, did that hurt? I’m so sorry.”

Fugo willed himself not to look, but it was impossible to avoid turning his head. Giorno’s green eyes were almond shaped, and pressed delicately into his face, like someone had carved them from stone. His nose was small and smooth, lips full. His eyelashes were the same color as his hair, a radiant gold the glowed in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

Fugo settled for flexing his hand and couldn’t help but cuss.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hoping Giorno wouldn’t hear.

“What was that?” Giorno appeared to be studying him as well, those goddamn eyes of him looking Fugo up and down like he was an exotic fish at the aquarium. “Are you okay?”

Are you okay? Was he okay? Was he ever fucking okay? Could he ever possibly be okay when Giorno fucking Giovanna was inches away from him, and he could feel the soft heat of his breath against his cheek.

Fugo slammed his bad hand onto the table and couldn’t hold back a howl.

“Quiet, Pannacotta, we’re in the library.” Giorno smiled. “What did you do that for?”

“It’s your fucking fault,” Fugo snarled. “Fuck you.”

“I don’t see how it is,” Giorno said.

“You broke my hand, dipshit!” Fugo was struggling to hold back tears, but his frustration was almost too much. Why did he cry when he was angry and never when he was sad? “And you never said sorry.”

“I didn’t realize you cared so much about an apology,” Giorno said sweetly. “If that’s all you wanted—”

“Leave me alone,” Fugo’s voice came out small, broken. “Please, Giorno, I just can’t.”

Giorno leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head.

“Did no one ever teach you, Fugo, that begging only ever makes things worse?”

“In my experience,” he seethed. “It’s a necessary part of the fun.”

“Well I beg to differ,” Giorno placed his hands on his knees.

“Maybe,” Fugo said. “Just maybe, we’ve been hurt by different kinds of people.”

“Who said anything about hurt?” Giorno said quickly, too quickly. “I’m just saying, if you want things to get better, you can’t be such a whiny bitch.”

“And I said,” Fugo started, voice icy. “That maybe things only end when you cry a little.”

“Fighting back is futile.” Giorno stood up. “The fuck would you know?”

“More than you,” Fugo said.

There was a palpable silence. Their eyes were locked, and Fugo felt the weight of Giorno’s glare.

“So, it is true,” he said slowly. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

“Coma,” Fugo said. “But I beat him within an inch of his life.”

“How’d you do it?” Giorno asked, some of his composure crumbling away. “I’ve tried, but…”

“I just snapped,” Fugo said, the most truthful he’d been in years. “One day I knew that I couldn’t take it anymore, and that there was only one way to stop it.”

“Fuck,” Giorno said. Fugo let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “I can’t fucking believe…”

Fugo was silent. He stared into his hands and willed time to unravel itself, and the past few moments to disappear from existence. If only he could just slice pieces of spacetime away, leaving fissures in the fourth dimension.

“I hate you,” Giorno said. “But I also really wanna kiss you.”

Fugo froze. His heart pounded in his ears. They were in the back corner of the library, far out of sight of the librarians, and there wasn’t anyone around to hear him scream. Well, that wasn’t true. Someone would definitely come if he screamed.

Why am I thinking about screaming?

Before he knew what was happening, Giorno grabbed the back of his neck and mashed their faces together, shoving his tongue down Fugo’s throat.

This was the time when everything should fall away, when the flashbacks would come rolling in and he’d be paralyzed in fear, living it over and over and over again.

But instead he felt an electric hum in the pit of his stomach, a passionate fire he didn’t know could exist.

Giorno pulled away from him, their noses touching.

“I need you,” he whispered to Fugo. “I need you so bad.”

“Badly,” Fugo said.

“What?” Giorno blinked, hand dropping to his side.

“I need you so badly,” Fugo corrected.

“Shut the fuck up,” Giorno said, grabbing him and pressing their foreheads together.

“Make me,” Fugo said, and he leaned into another violent kiss.

#

Fugo had scurried out of the library at the end of lunch with swollen lips and hickies he knew had to be the deepest shade of purple.

He hadn’t been kissed like that in…ever. Nothing with Narancia had ever made him feel the way he did, Fugo an electric outlet, and Giorno a metal fork.

It was only as he settled into his seat that he realized what had just happened.

Giorno. Fucking. Giovanna. Had kissed him. Him. Pannacotta Fugo. Stupid fucking piece of shit.

Fourth and fifth periods were blurs he had no memory of, and it wasn’t until he found himself outside of the art room that realized that he was fucked.

Giorno could play it one of two ways: 1. He acknowledged their kiss, or 2. He pretended it never happened.

Fugo wasn’t sure which thought was worse.

In the end, he bit the bullet and pulled the door open, only to find Mista and Giorno huddled over at Trish’s table.

He breathed a sigh of relief until he realized that despite their absence, their backpacks still sat at the usual table.

He settled in and hoped they didn’t notice him, but luck had never really been on his side.

“Fugo!” Mista called from across the room. “Be there in a second.”
            Giorno said nothing, and merely glanced at him, eyes flashing conspiratorially. His button-down was untucked, and his usually perfect hair was askew. Fugo wondered if anyone noticed.

The teacher called roll, and he ran his pencil up and down on the blank sheet of paper in front of him. It was their Monday free sketch, a twenty-minute period of time when they were supposed to get their creative muscles flowing and bring art into life, but Fugo knew it was actually an excuse for the teacher to look at Facebook memes on her computer.

He pressed his pencil hard enough into the paper that the led snapped off.

“Hey,” Mista said brightly, settling down next to him. “How was your weekend?”

“It was fine,” Fugo said, struggling not to crane his neck to look for Giorno. “Homework and whatever.”

“Sick,” Mista smiled. “Wait, is that a fucking hickey?”

Fucking Giorno, couldn’t even be bothered to aim below the collar.

“No,” Fugo said quickly. “I, uh, fell.”

“You really fall a lot,” said Mista slowly. “But I think you’re lying to me.”

“I would never,” Fugo lied. “Seriously, it’s nothing.”

Giorno slid into the seat across from him, settling himself down heavily.

“What’s this all about?” he asked, gesturing between the two of them. “Oh my god, Fugo, is that a hickey?”

“That’s what I said!” Mista proclaimed. “See, I told you I’m not crazy.”

“It’s not a hickey,” Fugo said again, bringing his hand to his neck. “It’s a bug bite or something.”

Malice shined in Giorno’s eyes. Fugo for the life of him couldn’t understand what he was playing at.

“Well I hope you’re okay, Fugo,” Giorno said sweetly. “You should let us know if someone is bothering you.”

It was in that moment that Fugo couldn’t help but remember the way Giorno’s mouth felt on his neck and chest, sucking deep bruises and using a lot of teeth. He brushed his hand over one of the deeper ones and relished the ache.

He hadn’t even had to ask. Giorno had bit him like he wanted to, as if he got as much from the biting as Fugo did getting bitten.

His hands, that slender golden hand had twisted his nipples so hard he wanted to scream, but the other slender golden hand covered his mouth.

It had been magical. Fugo realized all his reminiscing had him getting hard again.

Again.

It had taken so much with Narancia, hands, mostly, but they had to have been kissing and groping for a while for Fugo to feel anything. Ten seconds in with Giorno, and he was as hard as he’d ever been in his life.

“Hey Fugo,” Giorno said. “I don’t think I ever got your number.”

“Oh,” Fugo said. “Here.”

He unlocked his phone and slid it across the table. Giorno picked it up and typed rapidly.

“I can’t believe you hadn’t exchanged numbers before,” Mista said. “After we’ve been hanging out all this time.”

Fugo forced a smile. At this point he cared a lot for Mista, but his constant lack of awareness was a little draining. He knew everyone else could see the obvious tension between him and Giorno (which apparently had been sexual tension? Who would have guessed.) but Mista, loyal, loving Mista, remained blissfully unaware.

“You know how it is sometimes,” Giorno said.

The rest of the period went by quickly, and he found himself stealing glances at Giorno when he got the chance. He was going to have to think about the implications of this later, but right then, all he wanted was to drink in his beauty.

Where to begin with Giorno Giovanna? His slender waist, the slope of his shoulders, the delicate curve of his neck, the way his collarbones stretched out into infinity. Even his hair, golden and shaggy around his head was impeccable, a mandorla on the brightest painting.

For all of his study of art history, Fugo couldn’t think of a single work that compared to Giorno’s simple beauty.

No Venus had anything on him, from Botticelli to Titian. Narcissus, Adonis, Apollo, they were shadows of figures compared to the way light fell across Giorno’s face, gently adding a reddish glow to the shell of his ears and casting deep shadows along his jawline.

Fugo knew he should want his rubber band, that the sharp snap on his skin should be a welcome distraction from the thoughts within his head, but for some reason, there was nothing he needed less. For the first time, he felt an incredible warmth filling him gently, a pressure in his lower stomach that was usually tied up in some Gordian plight.

Giorno was the blade that sliced through the proverbial knot, and after sixteen years of trying to pull it apart string by string, Fugo was almost resentful for the ease with which Giorno had cut right through.

He listened to a different playlist than usual on the way home, mostly the Front Bottoms.

‘Cause you are water twelve feet deep

And I am boots made of concrete

Fugo hadn’t realized he was drowning until he hit the bottom of the pool. Every gasping breath let in more water, and it was all he could do to kick and scream and try not to die.

He kicked rocks on the sidewalk and tried to pretend he was in a shitty music video. It was overcast and grey, and the light was dull against the pavement.

The atmosphere fit, he had to admit.

He fumbled with the key in the lock, his hands slightly numb from the cold. It was probably worth it to invest in some gloves, but there was something embarrassing about needing them when it was above fifty degrees outside.

He remembered ski trips as a kid, Utah, Colorado, Montana.

His parents didn’t know how to ski well, and instead threw Fugo and his brothers into ski school while they day drank in the lodges.

He had been remarkably terrible at it, afraid of anything beyond the bunny hills and perpetually freezing. He hated the lifts the most, sure that the flimsy bar was nowhere near enough to keep him from hurtling onto the mountain below. He gripped anything he could get his hands on, from the sides of the chair to the hand of whoever sat next to him.

Eventually, they stopped taking him. It was After, naturally, when he was resigned and unwilling to do much of anything.

Plus, skiing with broken ribs was little more than torture.

Still, there had been something to say for bundling up in front of the fire, leggings under pants under overalls. Tee-shirt, fleece, sweater, coat.

He wished he’d gotten to keep more of his things, that he had been given a longer time and a bigger bag to shove all of his belongings in.

He turned the thermostat up and made his way to his bed. He wrapped his thin sheets around him and wished for warmth.

#

He woke up in the dark.

His stomach growled. He kept the sheets wrapped around himself as he walked to the fridge.

Empty. Like, completely empty.

There was a single bottle of water and that was it.

He opened the freezer. Nothing.

 “Fuck,” Fugo said.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked his bank account. He had four dollars. He opened his wallet and shook out a couple nickels and a dime.

“Fuck,” Fugo said again. “I am so screwed.”

Out of job, out of money, out of food, Fugo had no idea what he was supposed to do.

He needed to get hired, and fast. It was almost the end of the month, which meant the bills were due, and if he couldn’t pay for those he’d have no heat or water. And then in the middle of the next month was rent, and if he couldn’t make that, he was really truly fucked.

Who was hiring? And especially who was hiring an emancipated sixteen-year-old with no work experience beyond filing for a shitty travel company?

Fugo shut the fridge and walked back over to the door. He turned off the heat and slid to the floor.

It didn’t get cold immediately, but he knew that within the next few hours it would become unbearable.

What the fuck was he supposed to do? He figured he could grab his towel and wrap it around himself, even build a nest of clothes and never leave.

For food he could go to the pantry or soup kitchen. If he ended up getting kicked out, there was a homeless shelter he could stay at until he got back on his feet.

Despite his rationalizing, Fugo couldn’t shake the panic building in his sternum. It didn’t matter how much he prepared for the worst, there was something so terrifying about sitting at the edge and looking down into the abyss.

He remembered Giorno’s mouth on his just a few hours earlier, body heat that felt like it would never end.

He tried to hold onto it, pretend he was still enveloped in his warmth, not folded in on himself in a rapidly cooling apartment.

“Fuck,” he whispered, not trusting his voice not to break. “Fuck.”

He wasn’t drowning anymore. He had drowned.

Notes:

anyway, FUGIO NATION RISE UP!!!! can you tell that i'm such a fucking masochist. anyway,, i love their tension. It's also probably gonna get more explicit soon, but for now,,,,,,, making out in the library baby that's where I wanna be

Chapter 8: Nagoya

Summary:

In which the plot moves forward, and tension is built.

Notes:

Title comes from the song Nagoya by It Looks Sad., recommended to me by @akemiz!

Anyway, sorry for the delay, I turned in another draft of my manuscript and got too excited to work. I was also supposed to have therapy today, but I think I fucked up because he never showed. Anyway, this story is aggressively Fugio now, as all good things are. I had a million things I wanted to update you guys on, but for some reason it's all escaped me.
<3

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

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Nagoya

He was late to school in the morning. It had been nearly impossible to get out of bed, and harder still to force himself to change his clothes. He couldn’t afford a shower and figured he could deal with that later. Instead, he pulled on his hat and stepped out the door with resolution etched into his face.

The heat at school was a blessing. Never had Fugo been so warm in his life.

He didn’t dare set foot in the library. He couldn’t face Giorno.

Instead, he lined up in the cafeteria and asked for a liberal portion of the slop they served.

“I should be on free lunch,” Fugo said to the man ringing him up.

“You’re good, mijo,” he said. “Drink some milk, okay?”

He handed Fugo a carton and balanced it precariously on his Styrofoam tray. Fugo managed a small smile and tried to find somewhere to sit.

What he hadn’t realized after spending the first couple months of school in the library was that everywhere else had already been conquered. Every classroom he ducked his head into, every hallway, and every alcove beneath stairs was occupied by students.

He looked down at his bowl of meat, rice, and raw carrots and felt his stomach roll. As unappetizing as it seemed, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an actual meal.

 With a sigh of defeat, he headed back to the library.

He found his corner empty and settled down with the plastic spork.

“Bundy,” Giorno said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat before.”

Fugo wanted to slam his head into the table. There was no fucking escape.

“I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now,” said Fugo, trying to steel his voice. “Please just leave me alone today.”

“Aw, what’s wrong, baby?” Giorno slid into the seat next to him and pouted. “Are you okay?”

“For the love of fuck,” Fugo slammed his good hand onto the table. “Giorno, leave me alone.”

“That’s not what you were saying yesterday,” Giorno smirked.

“Well it’s not yesterday anymore, is it,” Fugo said. “I can’t handle your shit today.”

“Who said anything about shit?” Giorno leaned away and placed his hands flat on the table. “Maybe I’m here to be nice.”

“Doubt it.” Fugo squeezed his eyes shut. “Look, I’m going to eat my lunch and you’re going to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Giorno.

For a minute, it seemed like it worked. Despite not being able to taste anything, Fugo choked down his food. Once he felt full, he pushed the tray away from him and opened the carton of milk.

“You really gonna drink that?” Giorno asked.

“Yes,” Fugo said. “I am.”

“Think it’s still good?” Giorno poked it with a finger.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Fugo asked, shoving the little plastic straw inside.

“You don’t eat school lunch much, do you?” Giorno asked.

“This is my first time in a while,” Fugo admitted. “But they wouldn’t give us stuff that was bad, would they?”

“Less bad, and more…frozen,” Giorno made a face. “Just shake it and tell me what you hear.”

Fugo reluctantly obliged. A solid object knocked around a little bit, and Fugo recoiled.

“It turns to ice at the bottom,” Giorno said. “I wouldn’t touch that shit.”

“I’m not hungry anyway,” Fugo said, pushing the carton towards the rest of his left overs. “Could you please go?”

“What, you don’t enjoy my company?” Giorno asked, saccharine sweet.

Fugo said nothing. He wasn’t sure where they stood. Just yesterday they’d made out, Giorno’s warm, warm hands slipping under his sweater and scratching lines into his back.

“Giorno,” Fugo said slowly. “I need…”

“What do you need?” He leaned in, close enough that Fugo could feel his breath on his cheek. “Huh?”

“I need to know what you want from me,” he said simply. “Why you torture me, why you broke my hand, why you kissed me, why you didn’t acknowledge it at the table with Mista—”

“You really want Mista to know?” Giorno laughed. “Literally everyone else would know within like two minutes. You really think Narancia is going to be happy for you and me?”

“I…” Fugo stared into his hands. His right was less swollen and had started to heal. It didn’t throb the way it had a couple of weeks ago. “I didn’t think of that.”

“You don’t think,” Giorno said.

All I do is think, Fugo thought. But he has no way of knowing that.

“Look, Giorno,” Fugo said. “Please just tell me what you want.”

“I told you yesterday.” Giorno leaned into him. “I want you.

“And I told you,” Fugo said, staring into those goddamn eyes of his. “I don’t know what that means.”

“I’ll come over after school,” Giorno said. “And show you.”

“I—” Fugo blanched. “Giorno…”

“Meet me in the parking lot,” Giorno said. “Mwah.”

He blew a kiss, and Fugo was left with a deep despair in the pit of his stomach. It might also have been related to the fact that he’d eaten more in ten minutes than he had in ten days.

“Fuck,” he whispered, grabbing his abdomen. He shot his belongings a look and ducked into the bathroom. “Don’t move while I’m gone.”

He had even less clarity than before.

#

He rubbed his hands together in the parking lot, waiting for the bright red of Giorno’s car to pop into view.

“Hey,” Mista said, clapping him on the back. “Getting a ride?”

“Yeah.” Fugo blushed. “Giorno.”

“Aw, that’s awesome,” Mista said. “Bruno, Abbacchio, Giorno’s giving Fugo a ride home!”

“How precious,” Abbacchio said.

“Stay safe,” Bruno said.

“Thanks,” Fugo said. He wondered what they thought of this change of pace.

“Fugo are you good?” Bruno spoke again. “You look cold.”

“No, I’m fine,” Fugo said.

“Here,” he said, and took off his jacket. He handed it to Fugo, who just looked at it.

“Don’t be rude,” Abbacchio said. “Put it on.”

Fugo blinked. It wasn’t much, just one of Bruno’s patterned blazers.

He slipped it on, and it hung well past his wrists. It didn’t do much to cut the sting of the cold, but it smelled like clean laundry and peppermint aftershave.

“Thanks,” he said, voice small.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bruno said. “Just bring it back tomorrow.”

Fugo nodded.

            “Fugo.” Giorno had pulled up beside them, passenger side window rolled down.

            “Hey,” Fugo said, trying to hide his smile behind his hand. “See you guys tomorrow.”

            He ducked into the car, and watched as the window rolled up, distorting his view.

            Abbacchio and Bruno were already whispering to each other, and for the first time, Fugo knew it was about him.

            Mista, as always, seemed blissfully unaware, and was already typing away at his phone.

            “So,” Giorno said. “Your place, huh?”

            Fugo had been inside of this car three times, one of which had resulted in his hand being broken. He realized he should probably be more uncomfortable with that fact than he was.

            “Yeah,” Fugo said. “Left at Union street.”

            The car was marginally warmer than it was outside, but Fugo could already feel the cool creeping in. He wrapped Bruno’s jacket around him tighter.

            “Is that Buccellati’s?” Giorno asked.

            “Yeah,” Fugo said. “He lent it to me.”

            “Hm,” Giorno said. “Turn right here, yeah?”

            “Yeah,” Fugo said, but he had already turned.

            Giorno screeched to a stop in front of his apartment building. Fugo opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

            “Hey,” Giorno said before he could shut the door. “You gonna invite me in?”

            Fugo blinked. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”

            “Why’d you think I offered to drive you?” Giorno asked, slamming the door and clicking the lock. “Kindness of my heart?”

            “I guess,” Fugo said. “Should I be upset that I’m being used as a currency?”

            “Shut the fuck up,” Giorno said.

            Giorno trailed him up the stairs and looked over his shoulder as he fumbled with the key in the lock.

            Fugo opened the door, and Giorno pushed past him.

            “It’s fucking freezing,” he said. “Turn on the heat.”

            “Can’t,” Fugo said, dropping his keys into their bowl. “I have blankets I guess.”

            Fugo watched as Giorno explored his apartment, following his eyes as they raked over the mess.

            “Where?” Giorno asked.

            “Uh, well I guess I have sheets.”

            “Fugo, you’re living in an apartment without heat and you don’t have any fucking blankets? Next you’re going to tell me you don’t have any food.”

            “I don’t,” Fugo said quietly. “I just got fired—”

            “Holy shit.” Giorno laughed. “Bitch, you live like this?”

            “Yeah,” Fugo said, scratching the back of his head. “Look, if you’re just gonna insult me—”

            “Nah,” Giorno turned around sharply and looked him in the eye. “I’ll order food and we’ll relax, yeah?”

            “I—” Fugo started, but Giorno bridged the distance between them and led him to the couch.

            “Sit,” he ordered. “What kind of food do you want?”

            “I don’t have any money—”

            “Don’t worry about it,” Giorno said.

            Fugo sat down and brought his knees to his chest. There was something wildly humiliating about his position, Giorno leading him around his own home and offering to buy him food.

            “I thought you came here to…” The words got stuck in his throat. I thought you came here to fuck me.

            “What?” Giorno said.

            “Nothing.” Fugo curled into a tighter ball. “Just, whatever you want I guess.”

            “Cool,” Giorno said. “I’ll get us pizza.”

            Pizza. Just the thought of it made his mouth water.

            “Sounds good,” Fugo said.

            Giorno came over to the couch and fell down beside him. Immediately, Fugo was overcome with the slightly floral smell of cheap detergent and the overwhelming heat radiating off him.

            Without thinking, he moved a little closer.

            Giorno looked at him a little apprehensively.

            “Let me finish, yeah?” He looked back at his phone and kept tapping. Fugo felt tears press behind his eyes.

            Before he realized what was happening, he began to cry, strong silent sobs that wracked his body. Giorno hadn’t realized, too busy ordering food to notice Fugo.

            He wrapped his arms around himself tighter, relishing the dull throb of his hand as he pressed it against his leg. He could feel tears and snot dripping down his face, and he felt utterly disgusting.

            “Hey.” Giorno’s voice cut through the silence. “What’s up?”  

            “Nothing,” Fugo said, wiping his face with the heel of his hand. “I’m fine.”

            “No, you’re not,” Giorno said. He slipped his phone into his pocket and turned to face Fugo. “What’s wrong?”

            Here was where he should open up, let the words fall out of his mouth, be vulnerable. Instead he closed his eyes and pretended he was alone.

            “Fugo,” Giorno said. “I’m serious.”

            Fugo peeked an eye open, only to be met with a heavy stare from Giorno. His hair was loose around his shoulders, and his face was set with concern.

            “Nothing,” Fugo said again. “I’m just tired, or whatever.”

            Giorno frowned.

            “I—” he started. “Look, Fugo, if you tell me you’re fine, I’m going to believe you.”

            Fugo stared at him, Giorno with those searching green eyes that laid him bare. He ducked his head away and said: “I’m okay.”

            “Good,” Giorno said. “Now what?”

            Fugo could still feel tears leaking out of his eyes, mouth pressed tight shut. He knew if he moved too suddenly he would cry again.

            “Pizza will be here in half an hour.” Giorno stood up. “Are the only sheets on your bed?”

            Fugo nodded, and Giorno made his way over. He picked up the sheets and smelled them.

            “Not bad,” he said.

            “What, you think I don’t wash my sheets?” Fugo asked, a little taken aback.

            “I don’t know, you don’t seem to do much else.” Giorno sat back down on the couch and wrapped himself in the sheets. “Fuck, you don’t have a TV.”

            “Expensive,” was all Fugo said.

            He was fucking freezing, and Giorno was inches away with his body heat and the sheets and his warm golden hair, and Fugo had never wanted anything more in his life, but he knew if he initiated, there was no plausible deniability and that it would be his fault, it was always his fault, and no matter what he did or said—

            “Hey,” Giorno said. “We agreed you’re fine, okay?”

            Fugo clenched his jaw. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine.

            “C’mere,” Giorno said, lifting a corner of the blanket. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

            The yet hung in the air. As Fugo scooched closer to Giorno, he thought about what was wrong with him. He knew enough to know that different kinds of people had different trauma responses, but the way he relished the way things hurt, that had to be something objectively wrong with him. How could someone like him like it when Giorno caused him pain?

            Something must be wired wrong, when He had done what He had done, something must had crossed. There was no other explanation, the way the throbbing in his hand reminded him of the kiss from the other day, the way he liked to hurt.

            He allowed himself to lean into Giorno’s warmth. He was skinny, boney really, but so was Fugo, and they slotted together anyway. Giorno reached around and slung his arm over Fugo’s shoulder, and Fugo buried his face in the nape of his neck.

            Giorno’s skin was burning hot, and Fugo pressed his face as hard as he could into it.

            “Hey,” Giorno said. “Watch it.”

            See? Fugo thought. Giorno is normal. He doesn’t like it when things hurt.

            “Sorry,” Fugo said. “Just…you’re very warm.”

            “No fucking shit,” Giorno said. “The inside of the fridge is probably warmer than your apartment right now.”

            Fugo blushed, embarrassed.

            “Don’t be sorry about it,” Giorno said, squeezing his arm. “More excuses to get closer to you, Manson.”

            The bite in his voice should have set Fugo on edge, should have made him feel anxious, upset, but there was nothing but pleasure in the pit of his stomach.

            Fugo tilted his head so his face was pressed against Giorno’s beating heart, its steady rhythm enough to slow his own.

            Giorno ran his fingers through Fugo’s hair, tangling through the knots. He wasn’t particularly gentle, but he didn’t mind.

            Despite the chill, Fugo finally felt like he was warming up.

 

Notes:

next chapter shit gets real! like, explicit. But for now, have the warm build up to that.
I'm having so much fun with this fic (it's over a hundred pages long! It's insane) and I'm so glad people are reading it. I literally check the page ten times a day hoping for another comment or kudos or bookmark or whatever. You guys honestly give me the MOST serotonin, and I love it so much.
Thank you so much for reading, especially reading this far. This work means the world to me, and I'm so glad to be able to share it.

-

Also, this chapter is slightly under 3k, but it made way more sense to end it here. Anyway, expect a few hundred extra words in the next chapter (:

Chapter 9: I Miss Your Collar Bones

Summary:

CW: EXPLICIT

I am not gonna change everything in the official tags because that's a hassle. In this chapter there is an explicit blowjob, handjob, and lots and lots of trauma dumping. Fugo continues to like being degraded and Giorno tries to justify his fucked up behaviour.

<3

Notes:

image courtesy of the lovely @madamepsychosis.

-

Giorno says shut up nine times in this chapter. My boy needs some anger management therapy

chapter title comes from Bottom by McCaffety

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

Chapter Text

 

“Pizza’s here,” Giorno said, rousing Fugo. “I’m gonna go get it.”

            Giorno rubbed his eyes as he walked to the front door, toeing off his shoes and setting them next to Fugo’s.

            The door opened, money and food changed hands, and Giorno brought over the warm box to their place on the couch.

            Despite already having eaten that day, Fugo was hungry. His mouth watered at the sight of the pizza.

            “Itadakimasu,” Giorno said, settling down on the couch.  

            “That means ‘I receive the food’, yeah?” Fugo asked.

            “Literally, I guess,” Giorno said. “But it’s like saying bon appetit or whatever. My mom always said it before we ate as a kid.”

            “That’s cool,” Fugo said. “You’re from Japan?”

            “Yeah,” Giorno said. “I moved to the states when I was like seven.”

            “Do you still speak Japanese?” Fugo asked.

            “No, not really,” Giorno said, almost bitterly. “I didn’t speak it at school, and my mom, well…Why do you ask?”

            “Oh, I just think it’s cool,” said Fugo. “I studied Latin in middle school, but that’s just super useless.”

            “Huh,” Giorno said. “You should eat before it gets cold. Here.”

            Giorno opened the box and picked up a slice. He pressed it into Fugo’s hand and looked at him expectantly.

            There was something downright infantilizing about the way he looked at him, the way Giorno’s arms were crossed over his chest like a disapproving father.

            “Thanks,” Fugo said, taking a bite.

            “Whatever,” Giorno said, picking up his own piece. “Just eat.”

            They chewed together in silence, Giorno very pointedly staring where the television should be. Fugo took small bites and tried to enjoy himself.

            “That was good,” Fugo said, after he’d finished his piece. “Thanks.”

            “What, you’re done?” Giorno said. “Eat more.”

            “I…” Fugo started, but Giorno just shoved the box at him again. He reached in and took out another piece.

            It was just cheese pizza, the shitty kind with pools of orange grease and cheese that falls off. Fugo knew he had marinara sauce on the corners of his mouth, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He took increasingly bigger bites until there was nothing left but the crust. He set it down next to the first and reached for another.

            “What?” Giorno said suddenly, and Fugo pulled his hand back quickly. “You don’t eat the crust?”

            “Oh,” Fugo said. “Yeah, I don’t like it very much.”

            “Give it here, then,” Giorno said, taking it from him. “Waste of perfectly good fucking food.”

            Giorno eating his crusts felt bizarrely intimate. When he and Narancia split pizza, there was always a pile left at the end, bitten off crusts shoved back into the box headed for the dump.

            “What?” Giorno asked. “You never met someone who likes crust?”

            “Well, you’re eating my crust—”

            “It’s not yours if you’re not eating it,” Giorno said with his mouth full. “Don’t be weird, it’s not like we haven’t already shared saliva.”

            That was one way to put it.

            “Sorry,” Fugo said, voice small. “I just—”

            “Don’t apologize,” Giorno said bitterly. “Just eat some goddamn food.

            So Fugo stopped apologizing and ate some goddamn food.

#

Once they finished the entire pizza, Giorno got up to get them some water.

He rooted around the cabinets for a bit before coming across two of the four plastic cups Fugo owned.

“This place is a shithole,” Giorno said. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

Fugo said nothing. He knew he should be embarrassed, but he mostly felt pissed. Who the fuck was Giorno to come into his house and insult his things?

“Here,” Giorno shoved the cup into his hands, and water sloshed onto his shirt. He frowned, and Giorno laughed. “Whoops.”

“Hey,” Fugo said. “Watch it.”

“Watch your mouth,” Giorno said. He leaned over Fugo and spilled some of his own water.

“What the fuck?” Fugo cried.

“No need to get all emotional,” Giorno said. “Easy fix.”

He set his cup down and grabbed the bottom of Fugo’s shirt, guiding it over his head.

“I’m cold,” Fugo said in response, hugging the sheets against his chest.

“Here,” Giorno said, taking off his own shirt. “Now we match.”

“How the hell is that supposed to help?” Fugo asked, finishing his water and letting the cup drop to the floor.

“Shut the fuck up,” Giorno said, grabbing his shoulder and pushing him down. “Seriously, just shut the fuck up.”

This time, Fugo knew exactly what was coming when Giorno’s mouth met his. Giorno’s warm hands pressed against his chest, his lean body weighing Fugo down.

He kissed him hungrily, desperately, only for Giorno to pull away, their mouths a breath apart.

“Hey,” Fugo said, but Giorno covered his mouth

“Ground rules,” Giorno said, hand still clasped on his face. “No comments.”

Fugo squirmed a little until Giorno lifted his palm. “Comments on what?”

“Shut up,” Giorno said. “Do you have any rules?”

“Don’t call me by my name,” Fugo said before he could stop himself. “Anything else is fine.”

“No other hang-ups?” Giorno asked, letting his hand slide down Fugo’s chest. “Anywhere off limits?”

“No,” Fugo said breathlessly. “No, just fucking…touch me, hurt me, make me fucking feel something.”

“Got it,” Fugo could feel Giorno’s smile pressed against his mouth.  

Giorno pulled the sheet over their heads, and Fugo relaxed into him as his fingers slid under the waistband of his pants.

He groaned as Giorno touched him, pressure building in his thighs and stomach. Giorno rubbed Fugo with his thumb, and he couldn’t help but moan.

“God, you’re sensitive,” Giorno whispered against his ear. “You can’t cum yet.”  

“I won’t,” Fugo squeaked. “Fuck.”

As Giorno explored him, Fugo decided to return the favor. He let his hands roam the expanse of Giorno’s back, pausing only when he came across raised skin.

“Is—” he started before catching himself. This was what Giorno had meant by no comment. His back was covered in thick, raised, skin that Fugo was sure was due to excessive scarring. He ran his finger up and down one of the bigger ones, and nearly came from Giorno’s sudden vice grip.

“No comments,” Giorno said again, starting up again. “Just, don’t say anything.”

Between Giorno’s warm, wet, mouth, and his smooth, smooth hands, it was a wonder Fugo could think about anything other than where body met body, but he couldn’t help but wonder about the scars. They didn’t feel particularly fresh, but without looking at them, he couldn’t he sure.

“Stop thinking about it,” Giorno said. “I know you are.”

“I’m sorry,” Fugo said.

“Shut up,” Giorno moved his mouth down to Fugo’s neck and bit at one of the hickies. “Just shut up.”

Fugo lost time like that, distant and dreamlike with Giorno handling him with roughness. He couldn’t help but shiver at the iron grip of Giorno’s hand on his neck as he bit and sucked up and down Fugo’s chest. Everything burned and ached, and he was harder than he’d been in ages, Giorno rubbing him aggressively, hand tight around his flesh.

Giorno pulled back abruptly, and wiped spit that had collected around his mouth.

“You give head?” Giorno asked almost clinically, hands hesitating at the button of his jeans.

“Yeah,” Fugo said, trying to keep from rolling his eyes.

“Just checking,” Giorno said, unzipping his pants and sliding them off his legs. His underwear was off-white, and the hem was fraying. He pulled those off too, and Fugo was faced with Giorno, unescapable and maddeningly hard.

“Fuck,” he said, trying to regain his composure.

Giorno shifted so his weight was on his forearms and knees, shifting his body over Fugo’s so that all he could see was that brilliant golden skin.

Fugo took Giorno’s cock and placed it in his mouth, letting the heat fill him slowly. Giorno began to thrust, and Fugo allowed him to.

Giorno wasn’t anything special, but he was the biggest Fugo had ever taken, and he struggled to get air into his lungs. Giorno pistoned his hips faster, burying Fugo’s nose in his pubic hair.

Giorno groaned, holding himself in the back of Fugo’s throat until he began to choke. He slapped at Giorno’s thighs, and he pulled back.

“You like that, huh, you filthy fucking slut,” Giorno said, voice low. “You like it when I fuck your face.”

Fugo would have flushed, but all the blood in his body was inhabiting his dick as it strained even harder against his underwear.

“Let me hear you,” Giorno said, picking up his pace. “Tell me you like it.”

Fugo couldn’t make any comprehensible sounds around Giorno’s dick, but unintelligible moans seemed to be enough for Giorno.

Despite Giorno blocking his airway, Fugo felt like he could breathe better than he had in a long time, Giorno bent over him, his chest an expanse of brilliant skin, lined with scars.

It didn’t take long for Giorno to cum, grabbing Fugo by the neck as he shoved himself as far into Fugo’s throat as he could.

“Fuck,” Giorno moaned, hot cum spilling down Fugo’s throat. “Fuck.”

He pulled back and sat back so he was kneeling, hands clasped in his lap as he surveyed the mess he’d made of Fugo’s face.

Fugo choked down as much of the cum as he could, but a pretty solid amount dripped back out of his mouth. He wiped it with the heel of his hand.

“Did you like that?” Giorno asked. “You took my cock like the little slut you are.”

Fugo’s throat still hurt too much to say anything, so he just nodded and coughed a little.

In an act of bizarre tenderness, Giorno reached over and wiped away some of the cum and saliva that was dripping down Fugo’s chin. He used his other hand to wipe the tears out of his eyes.

“Fuck you,” Giorno whispered, but there was no bite. “Fucking murderer.”

Fugo said nothing, and instead closed his eyes, hoping to keep from any more tears escaping. It was easy to blame the other ones on a blocked airway, but he would have more trouble explaining why he was crying after he gave head.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t enjoyed it. He enjoyed it as much as one can. It wasn’t the sex that upset him, at least not consciously. It wasn’t even that it was with Giorno, the guy who broke his hand and spent the past month making his life hell.

Something ran deeper, and he didn’t really want to think about it.

“I’m kind of done,” Giorno said. “Can I take a shower?”

“Yeah,” Fugo said. “Water doesn’t get very hot, though.”

“Whatever,” Giorno said, sliding off the couch. “You can join me, I guess.”

Giorno stretched, lithe and catlike. The scars on his back shifted over his muscles and spine, and Fugo counted at least twelve.

Some were clearly incredibly old, and others were far fresher. Looking at the ravaged plane of his back, Fugo felt something twitch in the pit of his stomach, the sort of unpleasant way he felt when something particularly gruesome happened on TV.

Giorno shivered against the cold. He left the bathroom door open as he turned the tap on.

“Where’re the towels?” he asked, arms crossed over his chest. He had a particularly nasty scar running from his collar bone to his left nipple.

“On my bed,” Fugo said, pointing.

Giorno nodded and grabbed one. He left the bathroom door open as he stepped into the shower, his form a shadow against Fugo’s cheap curtain.

Fugo hadn’t cum, but he wasn’t sure how comfortable he was jacking off. Although he could see Giorno, Giorno couldn’t really see him. Despite being out of his view, Fugo still withered under the assumption that he was watching.

Instead, he stripped and made his way to the bathroom, gripping his hands to his arms in some semblance of warmth. It was steamy in the bathroom; Giorno must have hit a good time when there was still hot water left, and Fugo accidentally let a sigh escape as he imagined the water hitting his bare skin.

“Close the door behind you,” Giorno raised his voice to be heard above the stream.

Fugo obliged and found himself standing in the middle of his bathroom, unsure of what he was to do next.

“Get in,” Giorno said with annoyance. “I doubt the hot water is gonna last long.”

Fugo pushed the curtain out of the way and stepped over the lip of the tub. The space was small, and he and Giorno were essentially face to face.

He wasn’t quite within the reach of the water. Wordlessly, Giorno turned so that Fugo could slot in next to him.

There was something much more inescapable about this position, something infinitely more compromising. On the couch, there were sheets covering them and they had been horizontal. In the shower, they were face to face and completely naked.

“Why didn’t you take care of that?” Giorno asked, voice gravelly. “Here.”

He grabbed Fugo’s cock and tugged lightly. Giorno continued to stare into his eyes and shifted nervously.

“What?” Giorno asked. “You don’t like me looking at you?”

It wasn’t that Fugo didn’t like being looked at. It was the way Giorno looked at him, like he was taking him apart piece by piece. He seemed to look through Fugo, past his alabaster skin and deep into his inner workings. Giorno’s eye trailed across Fugo’s chest like he was counting his ribs individually.

“Hnng,” was all Fugo managed to say, because between the stroking and the hot water dripping down his face, he hadn’t been able to keep himself from cumming.

He splattered onto Giorno’s stomach and chest. Giorno looked down with interest and began to wash it away.

“Sorry,” Fugo said, face flushed. “I—”

“Shut up,” Giorno said.

The awkwardness was palpable. What do two people do in the shower together if not sex? Neither Fugo nor Giorno seemed interested in taking it any further, and they both stood at an impasse, faces barely a breath apart.

“Soap?” Giorno asked eventually, and Fugo shifted so he could grab it from the shelf.

“Here,” Fugo said, handing him the bar.

“Bar soap?” Giorno asked, looking disgusted.

Fugo said nothing. It’d been the cheapest at the store, and it seemed to work fine. Although on occasion he did break out in a rash. But that could have been due to any number of cheap products he used.

Giorno lathered up and wiped himself off, crossing his arms under his armpits and washing his sides. He spent a little extra attention on his stomach and chest. He couldn’t quite bend over to wash his legs, not without knocking Fugo over, so he sort of stretched out to the side and reached as best he could.

“Why are you staring at me?” he asked.

“I’m not,” Fugo said defensively.

“You literally are,” Giorno said. “Just, whatever.”

He handed Fugo the soap and reached behind him for the shampoo.

Fugo cleaned himself off, carefully avoiding anywhere particularly sensitive. Giorno didn’t outwardly appear to be paying him much mind, but he could feel the weight of his stare when he thought Fugo wasn’t looking.

It was a delicate dance. The water quickly cooled, and the novelty wore off. Giorno shut off the tap and they stood there, nose to nose, with only the sound of their breathing to score the scene.

Giorno took the towel and began to wipe himself down, nearly shoving Fugo down in the process. Fugo took a step to the end of the bathtub and watched as Giorno wrapped the towel around his hair and wrung it out.

Fugo grabbed the other towel from where it hung over the curtain and dried off his own hair. He had cut it himself, a sloppy job that was more mullet than anything else. His bangs were choppy and uneven, the hair in the back long and stringy.

Giorno’s hair, despite its wetness, looked neat. His bangs were curled just above his eyes, the rest of it splayed out along the back of his neck, just above his shoulders.

Giorno had fine golden hair on his chest, dipping below his collarbones and between his pecs. It darkened considerably down his stomach, honey brown as it condensed around his penis.

Instead of hair, Fugo was covered in freckles. Sure, there were white blonde wisps on his own crotch, but other than that, his skin was smooth.

Giorno had stopped drying himself off and was looking over Fugo again.

“What?” Fugo asked bitterly.

“Nothing,” Giorno said, blushing a little bit. “Shut up.”

“You’re a fucking freak,” Fugo said. He pushed the shower curtain to the side and stepped out of the bathtub. The tile was cool and slippery beneath his feet, and he placed his good hand against the wall for support.

Giorno followed him out, tying the towel around his waist.

There was finally enough space between them that Fugo felt like he could breathe. From this distance, Giorno’s scars were still apparent, but they looked less severe. As Giorno turned around to wipe off the mirror, Fugo stared at the white lines that crisscrossed his back.

Some of them were very old, barely off color and deep set into the skin, other raised, red, and raw. They started at his shoulders and trailed down to his ass.

“Stop staring,” Giorno said, whipping around. “Just stop.”

Fugo looked down at his own body, free of any such blemishes. He almost resented Giorno for having such concrete proof of his suffering.

“My step dad gets angry sometimes,” Giorno said without warning. “Well, a lot of the time.”

If Fugo were more like Giorno, he would have cut in with a snide ‘I didn’t ask.’

But Fugo was not like Giorno, and kept his mouth shut.

“If I’m home late, if there’s nothing to eat, if my mom is out all night. It’s his belt mostly, not one he wears, one he keeps hanging on the wall like it’s some sort of tool. Spatula, dustpan, belt.

He hasn’t been so bad this week because he just got a raise, but he’s gonna be pissed that I bought so much food.”

“Why’d you do it?” Fugo asked. “Why’d you buy me food if you knew it would get you in trouble?”

“Dumb fucking question,” Giorno spat. “Why do we do anything?”

Fugo wasn’t sure what kind of answer he was looking for, but it didn’t matter because Giorno responded anyway:

“It’s about survival, Pannacotta,” Giorno said.

“Please don’t call me that,” said Fugo.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” Giorno asked, but his tone was gentle.

“Please just don’t call me that,” Fugo said.

“You’re a fucking freak, you know that?” Giorno said. “Whatever, I’ll respect your wishes or whatever.”

“Thanks,” Fugo said softly.

“What happened to you?” Giorno said. “How’d you end up this fucked up?”

“You already know, don’t you?” Fugo said.

“I’m a fan of details,” Giorno said. “And I’m willing to trade.”

“I…” Fugo said. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

“When have you ever known what’s good for you?” Giorno asked. “How did he hurt you?”

Fugo’s breath was lodged in his throat, and he felt tears pressing against his eyelids.

“He…” Fugo wouldn’t, couldn’t, let the words out. His throat closed up, his tongue a lifeless chunk of flesh in his mouth.

“I told you,” Giorno said more firmly. “You owe me.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Fugo said. “I don’t owe you anything.”

Giorno stepped closer and grabbed him by the chin. He squeezed, and Fugo felt Giorno’s fingers against his teeth.

“Shut up,” Giorno said, mouth set in a stern line. “Don’t make me—”

“Don’t make you what?” Fugo said. “Hurt me again?”

Giorno squeezed, and tears pushed their way out of Fugo’s eyes. Then he let go, hand dropping to his side.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Giorno said.

Well you do, thought Fugo. And the worst part is, I like it.

“You always think that you’re better than that,” Giorno said. “Or at least, I always thought I would be. Like, I would be different. It seems obvious; you abuse a kid, they learn compassion and grow from it and end the cycle. But there wouldn’t be a cycle if that was how it actually worked.”

Giorno paused for a second, before reaching out to grab Fugo’s bad hand.

“I did this to you,” he said quietly, like the weight of it had only just hit him. “And the worst part is that I know why.”

“I’m sorry,” Fugo said, wincing as Giorno tightened his grip. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Giorno said. “Why are you apologizing? I broke your fucking hand.”

“I…” He trailed off. “I dunno.”

Giorno let go of his hand and brought one of his own to press against his temple.

“I need to go home,” he said. “See you tomorrow?”

Fugo nodded but thought it worth mentioning that Giorno was still buck naked in his bathroom save the towel thrown over one of his shoulders.

“Bye,” Fugo said, moving out of his way so he could step out of the bathroom. “Drive safe, I guess.”

Giorno disappeared into the main room, shutting the door behind him. The air was still slightly heavy with condensation, but the chill had already begun creeping in.

Notes:

that was a ROUGH ONE. Took ages to write (especially because it was about 500 words longer than normal) but here it is. The story is not necessarily coming to an end, but I think it's hit a sort of mid point. Or like a pre-mid point. I dunno. I'm not sure the direction it's going in, but I like it.

Chapter 10: Late Nights in My Car

Summary:

Fugo and Giorno commit some crimes.

Notes:

chapter title is late nights with my friends by real friends.
this is a break from the last chapter. No TW in this one, dw. I'll get back into that stuff later.

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

Chapter Text

Fugo dressed quickly, layering his shirts and pants and socks and putting Buccellati’s jacket back on.

He brought his sheets from the couch to his bed and curled beneath them. It was still early; it couldn’t have been past four. Still, a wave of exhaustion washed over him, mixed with the heavy weight of food in his stomach. He brought the sheets above his head and buried his face in his pillow. In no time at all, he was drifting off into a deep sleep.

When he woke, it was still dark. Streetlights shone through his window, and the soft green of the microwave cast onto the floor of the kitchen. He tried to turn around and fall back asleep, but there was an electric hum running through him, He stayed huddled under the sheets, but fished behind the bed for his phone. He disconnected it from his charger and tapped the home button.

The blue light was brilliant against his eyes, and he instinctively squeezed them shut. When he adjusted, he opened his eyes slowly and took in his home screen.

It was 3:43 am. He had a couple notifications, emails from colleges he couldn’t afford to attend and an Instagram message from Mista.

He opened the latter and took in the post Mista had sent him. It was one of those videos of dogs eating people food. He gave it a cursory double tap and then ignored it.

He cycled through the apps on his phone, mobile games, YouTube, Instagram, but it took him less than an hour to grow bored and set the phone back down on his bedside table.

He woke up after his alarm had been going on for a while, dreaming of marimba tones. He got ready quickly and set off to school with only a few minutes to spare.

#

Giorno beat him to the library. It helped that Fugo had decided to get lunch today (a roast beef sandwich with little packets of mayo and mustard all in a little plastic box).

He sat down and dug into his food. He tried to ignore Giorno’s impenetrable stare from across the table.

After he’d finished as much of the sandwich as he could muster (less than half; even if he’d had a bigger stomach, he frankly didn’t want to fill it with this) he closed the plastic box and rested his hands on the table.

“Full?” Giorno asked.

“Yeah,” Fugo said.

Fugo couldn’t help but stare at Giorno, imagining the way the scars lined his chest and back under his shirt.

“I’m coming over again after school,” Giorno said. Not a question, never a question.

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

Giorno sat there for another minute, clearly weighing the benefits of something in his head.

“I brought you an actual blanket,” he said finally. “And I have an idea for how to get you a space heater.”

Fugo paused. Kindness always came at a price, and Giorno was no different. What was his angle?

“Look,” Giorno said, voice uncharacteristically small. “It was fucking cold yesterday.”

“I know,” Fugo snapped. “But I’m not taking fucking charity from you.”

“It’s not charity,” Giorno said, voice steely. “Think of it as retribution.”

“I didn’t think you knew what retribution meant,” Fugo said.

“You’re thinking of Narancia and Mista,” Giorno said bitterly. “You don’t have a monopoly on intelligence.”

“Don’t say shit about them,” Fugo snapped. “You have no fucking right to—”

“Shut up,” Giorno said with finality. “You don’t get to pretend to care for them.”

“I…” Fugo curled his good hand into a fist. “It’s not pretend.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you did to Narancia,” Giorno said.

How desperately Fugo wanted to say that he hadn’t done anything at all, but he knew it was a bald-faced lie. He had hurt Narancia as much as Giorno had hurt him, except Narancia was normal and didn’t like it when Fugo had jabbed him with a fork, didn’t like it when their roughhousing got too aggressive, didn’t like when Fugo called him names.

The golden rule was a tricky one when you’re a masochist.

“I’m sorry,” Fugo said, because that’s all he ever seemed to say these days.

“Don’t apologize,” Giorno snapped. “I’ll see you later.”

And with that, he got up and walked away.

#

Giorno ignored him through art class, but Fugo barely noticed because Mista practically had him in a headlock for the entire period, obsessed with getting “answers” out of him.

“Who are the hickies from?” Mista grabbed him and pulled down his collar, poking at the bruises with his fingers. “You have to tell me.”

“They aren’t hickies,” Fugo said, trying to move his arm so the tip of the pencil reached the paper. “Leave it alone.”

Normally, this was where Giorno would chime in and heckle him, offering Mista suggestions as to who they could be from. Instead, he was attentive over his own paper, scrawling madly with his own mechanical pencil.

The period was an eternity. By the time the bell finally rung, Fugo swore the entire collar of his shirt had been stretched out by inches.

He trailed behind Giorno and Mista as they walked to the parking lot. He slipped out of the jacket when he saw Abbacchio and held it delicately while he waited.

“I’ll take that,” said Abbacchio.  

“Thanks,” Fugo said.

“Sure,” Abbacchio leaned in closer. “Are those hickies?”

Fucking Giorno.

“Bruno,” Abbacchio called. “Come here.”

Bruno came, wordlessly shrugging the jacket over the one he was already wearing. When he had settled, he leaned forward and brought a long slender finger to Fugo’s neck.

Then, without warning, he ducked his head in and licked a stripe of Fugo’s exposed skin. Pulling back, Fugo nearly tripped into Giorno’s arms.

“I see,” Bruno said, eyes glinting mischievously. “Leone?”

“Safe travels,” Abbacchio said.

Fugo loosed himself from Giorno’s arms and set his face into a scowl. Bruno and Abbacchio were either incredibly perceptive or Giorno’s trusted confidants. Both scared him equal amounts, with the former meaning that Narancia and Mista might find out, and the latter meaning Narancia and Mista might find out.

He hugged his arms around himself, both due to the chill of the afternoon air and the fear of what might happen to him if his secrets got out.

“Ready to head out?” Giorno asked, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” Fugo said, voice small. “Bye, guys.”

Narancia didn’t so much as look at him, but Mista smiled widely and bumped his fist.

“Smart move carpooling,” he said. “Cause you guys are neighbors.”

“Carpooling,” Giorno said, like he was tasting the word in his mouth.

“Carpooling,” Fugo repeated with as much confidence as he could muster. “It’s just out of convenience.”

“You’re a weirdo,” Mista said affectionately. “Both of you are freaks, I’m glad you’re getting along so well.”

Freaks was one way to put it. Fugo figured Mista knew little about the goings on beneath Giorno’s shirt.

“Let’s go,” Giorno said a little sharply, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt (oh the abuse it had taken).

“Bye,” Fugo said a little sheepishly, and allowed himself to be led by Giorno to the car.

Giorno turned the key in the ignition, but he didn’t turn on the heat. Fugo rubbed his arms dramatically to indicate hey asshole it’s fucking freezing please warm me up, but Giorno pointedly ignored it.

Giorno, despite his train wreck of a home life, always seemed to dress well. He had tight jeans on, and silky shirt underneath a varsity jacket that read “Chapman 89”.

He was wearing Chuck Taylors too, but his were a pastel pink and not nearly as ragged as Fugo’s own.

“You dress well,” Fugo said without thinking.

“Thanks,” Giorno said, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out from his shirt. “You don’t.”

“I know,” Fugo said, and looked down at his stained slacks and moth-eaten shirt.

“Wanna get something to eat?” Giorno asked, as if food had only just occurred to him. “Before we go back to your place.”

“Sure,” Fugo said.

And Giorno took off with little regard for such things as speed limit and lanes, running a couple red lights in a row before pulling into a strip mall parking lot.

“You’re going to get pulled over,” Fugo said, shivering. Giorno never had turned on the heat. “And then you’ll get arrested.”

“Whatever,” Giorno said, running a hand through his golden blonde hair. “Fuck the police.”

As much as Fugo agreed, he wasn’t sure if that really made sense in the context he’d brought it up, but before he had too much of a chance to dwell on it, Giorno’s door opened and a rush of cool air poured in.

Fugo followed Giorno out and into the 7/11. Giorno beelined to the back, and Fugo followed him doggedly.

The first thing Giorno did was grab a Big Gulp cup.

“I’m not really thirsty,” Fugo said, aware of the tap water from his sink that costed marginally less.

“It’s not for you,” Giorno said. “And shut up.”

It was only then that Fugo realized 1. Giorno had brought his backpack in with them and 2. He had never specified buying food that Fugo realized what was going on.

His anxiety immediately launched into hyperdrive, and he could feel himself hyperventilating.

“Shut up,” Giorno whispered forcefully. “Don’t attract attention.”

“I think I need to go wait in the car,” Fugo said. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Don’t be a pussy,” Giorno said. “Go grab a Big Gulp and follow me.”

The roamed around the back of the store for a little while, before coming across the candy isle. Giorno examined the king-sized bars before shoving as many as he could fit into the cup and putting plastic lid over it.

Fugo didn’t really have much of a sweet tooth, but he didn’t think much else would fit so readily into the Big Gulp, so he copied Giorno and put some of the same in.

Giorno then spent the next five minutes perusing the shelves and shoving things into his backpack, from chip bags to roasted peanuts to the prepackaged sandwiches cooling on the shelves.

After Giorno’s bag was nearly bursting at the seams, he marched up to the counter and placed their Big Gulps full of candy bars on the counter.

The guy looked at him, eyes bored, and gave them a total. Giorno forked over two dollars and smiled.

Fugo, who really felt like he was on the verge of being sick, kept his arms around his stomach and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“C’mon,” Giorno said, knocking his shoulder and handing him his “drink”. He wondered if the man at the counter could tell it was heavier than it was supposed to be.

He shuffled quickly out of the store and didn’t catch his breath until he was seated in Giorno’s car.

“Wow,” Fugo said, blood rushing to his head. “That was crazy.”

“I literally do it all the time,” Giorno said, throwing his bag into the backseat. “It’s no big thing.”

Adrenaline thrummed through Fugo as Giorno drove them to his house, his heart beating twice its normal speed. Giorno parked out front and gestured for Fugo to grab the Big Gulp cups.

They made their way up the stairs, and Fugo fumbled with his keys for a minute before Giorno grabbed one of the cups and tucked it into the crook of his arm. Fugo turned the locks, and they settled into his apartment.

From his backpack, Giorno produced not only an incredibly amount of stolen goods from the 7/11, but also a scratchy looking woolen blanket.

“Here,” he said, face neutral. “You can keep it or whatever.”

Fugo immediately wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, grateful for the warmth. He almost didn’t mind that it sort of smelled like Giorno.

Among the items Giorno removed from his backpack, Fugo spotted a small plastic bottle and some condoms.

He swallowed at the lump in his throat. It didn’t have to mean something. He wanted this, anyway. Giorno was only bringing him these things and this food as payment, retribution. Fugo couldn’t possibly believe that all of this was free.

“So,” Giorno said, settling down on the couch. “You gonna share the blanket or what?”

He’d already taken off his shoes and tucked his legs beneath himself delicately.

“Come here,” he said, and grabbed Fugo by the shirt, tugging him down. “Come on.”

Fugo expected for them to get right into it, for Giorno’s mouth to meet his, for his hands to wander down the back of his pants, but instead, Giorno peeled off the top of the Big Gulp cup and held it out to him.

“Take,” he said, almost shyly. “It’s for us to share.”

Fugo fumbled around before he found something that didn’t have peanuts. He wasn’t deathly allergic, but if he had too much he got a rash on the backs of his hands and the insides of his thighs.

“Do you have a peanut allergy?” Giorno asked. Goddamn him.

“Yeah,” Fugo said. “But it’s mild.”

“I’ll just take those home then,” Giorno said, pulling out the Snickers and Reese’s and tossing them on the floor by his shoes.

“You don’t have to…” Fugo started, but Giorno slugged him on the shoulder.

“Dipshit, I can’t kiss you if I’ve eaten peanuts, or you’ll die.”

“I won’t die,” Fugo said. “I’ll just get a rash.”

“Well I don’t want that, either,” Giorno said. He punched him again, a little harder this time. “C’mon.”

Fugo unpeeled the Twix bar with shaking fingers. It was still cold, and he still had the rush of nerves from their expedition at 7/11. Eventually, Giorno grabbed the bar from his hands and threw the plastic to the floor. He took a bite and tilted it to Fugo.

Fugo took his own bite, small and delicate, but Giorno shoved it far into his mouth. He let out a muffled scream, and Giorno laughed.

“You look like you did when you took my cock,” he said, warm velvet coating his voice. “But if I keep this shit up, I won’t be able to last later.”

Fugo shivered. Giorno was making what could only be described as “bedroom eyes” at him, but he wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and dream of chocolate.

“Maybe we can…” Fugo trailed off.

“Maybe we can what?” Giorno said quickly.

“Maybe we shouldn’t, do anything…today.” Fugo said meekly, waiting for Giorno’s recoil.

“Oh,” he said. “Sure, yeah.”

Fugo blinked. He was expecting a slap, be it physical or verbal, but nothing ever came. Giorno just looked at him and chewed thoughtfully.

“Look, I might be a fuckup, but I’m not a rapist,” Giorno said. “I want you to want me.”

“I do,” Fugo said, backpedaling. “We can, we can…it’s fine I can take it.”

“Fugo,” Giorno said. “I don’t want you to take it. I want you to enjoy it.”

Fugo blinked again and stared numbly at the outstretched Twix bar.

“Fugo,” Giorno said, voice gentler. “I’m not gonna fuck you unless you want me to.”

“Then why all this?” Fugo asked. He took another bite so he wouldn’t have to elaborate.

“All this?” Giorno looked around. “Fugo, buying you pizza, taking a blanket from my closet, and stealing shit from 7/11 is not some romantic gesture. I’m not doing this because I expect anything from it. I actually, kind of sort of. Well…”

He broke off. Giorno shoved the rest of the candy bar into his mouth and talked while chewing.

“Ikindoflikeyou,” he said all at once. “See, whatever.”

“Oh,” Fugo said. Oh.

“Whatever,” Giorno said quickly. “Wanna split a sandwich?”

He cracked open the plastic container and handed him the food. Fugo took a little bite, nibbling at the corner.

“You eat like a fucking mouse,” Giorno said. “Just put it in your mouth and chew.”

Giorno’s half of the sandwich was almost gone, and Fugo resented the ease at which Giorno’s stomach tolerated food.

“I can’t eat very fast,” Fugo said. “I don’t have room.”

“Whatever,” Giorno said, rolling his eyes.

Fugo choked down his sandwich and smiled meekly at Giorno.

That’s what he was supposed to do, yeah? To sit and please and be good. As Giorno had said, his stepfather wasn’t one for those who fought back, not like how He’d been, so Fugo would try his best to sit still and do as he was told.

“Why are you sitting like that?” Giorno asked. “Like I’m about to hit you. I literally just told you—”

Fugo began to cry. Again. It felt like every time he was alone with Giorno he was drowning.

“I’m not gonna hit you,” Giorno said through gritted teeth. “Fugo, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

But that’s not what I want, Fugo thought. I don’t want you to stop hurting me.

“That’s not it,” Fugo said between sobs. “You, you…”

Between his hair in his face and the tears clouding his eyes, Fugo couldn’t see the look on Giorno’s face. It wasn’t until he felt his hands wrap around his shoulders that he realized he was being pulled into a hug.

“I know I kind of suck,” Giorno said quietly. “But I really really like you.”

The crying didn’t stop, but Fugo could feel his heartbeat slowing down. For some reason, he felt calmed by the arms around him. It didn’t send him into a state of panic like he thought it would. Instead, Giorno’s arms were a welcome comfort.

Notes:

bit of a doozy I guess? Fugo begins to learn about how warmth and comfort sometimes feel almost as good as getting his hand broken.

anyway, fugio hours. The two of them are very dysfunctional, but maybe they'll be dysfunctional together.

Chapter 11: Let's Talk About Your Hair

Summary:

MAJOR TW:

Mentions of self harm, explicit flashbacks of rape, general trauma dumping, and talking about past abuse without working through it super well.

Essentially, Fugo and Giorno get jobs, they rob a Target, and discover that Fugo has a medical condition he didn't know about.

Notes:

Chapter title is Let's Talk About Your Hair by Have Mercy

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

Chapter Text

They fell into a bit of a pattern.

Giorno met Fugo at lunch, and they sat across from each other while Giorno watched Fugo choke down some cafeteria food, before slipping into one of the study rooms. They never got very far at school, but Fugo liked it that way.

Giorno largely ignored him in art, spending more time with Trish and Mista. Fugo could feel him staring when he thought no one was looking, but he never tried to catch his eye.

Then after school: sometimes they’d shoplift, sometimes they’d drive around in circles, but mostly Giorno and Fugo worked at Truong’s Donuts.

It happened by accident; Fugo took Giorno once when they were both hungry and didn’t have the energy to rob a convenience store. It’d been a couple days since Fugo had had anything other than school lunch, and he was nearly woozy with hunger. Not to mention, the middle of the month was coming up, and he wasn’t going to make rent.

Instead of allowing him to freak out, Giorno held him in his arms and whispered about how they’d make it, they’d run away, find somewhere, they’d do it together.

It was not a comforting thought. At least on his own he had his pride and his independence. He already felt so indebted to Giorno, he couldn’t imagine literally owing him his life.

So Fugo took Giorno to Truong’s donuts to get some day olds.

“Hey,” the girl behind the counter said.

“Hey,” Fugo said, smiling meekly. “Do you have day olds?”

“Can I offer you something better?” she asked, and Fugo felt the pit in his stomach drop.

“What do you mean?” Giorno asked, slamming his hand on the counter.

“Well,” she said. “We’re hiring right now, and I was wondering if you needed a job. Actually, if both of you needed jobs.”

Fugo looked at her then at Giorno. His head whipped back and forth a couple of times before landing on Giorno.

“I didn’t even give you my resume—” Fugo started, but Giorno slapped his hand over Fugo’s mouth.

“What he’s trying to say is yes,” Giorno said. “Yes, we will take jobs.”

The afternoons at Truong’s Donuts was mostly dishes and customer service. They baked everything early in the morning before opening, and instead needed the boys’ help in managing. Well, it was less that they needed help and more that they pitied them.

Fugo was paid over the counter, Giorno under. He walked out at the end of a week with an envelope full of cash and a smile on his face. Fugo left with a check and a feeling of hope.

“We should get something to celebrate,” Giorno said. “Wanna go to Target?”

“Sure,” Fugo said, because what other option did he have.

To Target they went, the big two-story one that sat off Colorado. Giorno parked poorly in the lot and the two of them stumbled into the store with a sense of purpose.

Giorno, as usual, filled his bag with stolen goods, primarily cans of tuna fish and baked beans. Off Fugo’s look, he shrugged and said “Protein.”

Fugo knew he wasn’t going to get anything more out of him, so he let it go and trailed behind him, looking at the shelves of stuff and wondering what he should buy.

To Giorno’s credit, he was incredibly smooth. Often times, Fugo didn’t even know what he had walked out with until they were back at his apartment, divvying up the goods. As they wandered around, Fugo tried to guess what Giorno had stolen.

They made their way to the school supplies section. While Fugo flipped through notebooks (did he really need a new one? He could always write smaller) Giorno gasped loud enough for Fugo to notice.

“What?” he asked.

“I’ve got it,” Giorno said. “I’m buying scissors.”

“Okay,” Fugo said. It wasn’t abnormal for Giorno to buy something, as it’s always less suspicious to exit after checkout, but scissors were a new one. Normally it was a drink or a bag of chips or a candy bar.

Giorno held said scissors aloft, orange plastic with silver blades. He seemed to be seeking Fugo’s approval, so he nodded.

After a couple more rounds, they made their way to the cash register, and Giorno paid for his scissors in cash. They walked through the security sensors without a problem (nothing Giorno stole was worth much of anything, certainly not enough to trigger an alarm) and back to his car.

When they arrived at Fugo’s apartment, he couldn’t help but notice the way the scissors were jutting out of Giorno’s pocket.

He instinctively reached for his own switchblade, before realizing that he had dumped it along with the rubber band.

At this point his hand was completely healed (save for the occasional ache and pain, but that wasn’t particularly abnormal for any parts of his body), but he never bothered to slip the rubber band back on his wrist.

He sat down on the couch and ran his hand through his hair as Giorno dumped their goods on the floor and sorted it into piles.

“Pantry, my house, pantry, bathroom…” Giorno mumbled, placing things in groups. “Fugo, are you going to want this?”

He held up a notebook, the same one Fugo had been examining before and had decided not to buy. Fugo felt a blush creeping up his face.

“Sure,” he said as non-chalantly as possible. “Whatever.”

Giorno tossed it to him, and it bounced lamely out of his hands. Fugo watched as it settled at his feet.

“Okay,” Giorno said. “I’m going to give you a haircut.”

“What?” Fugo asked.

“You need a haircut,” Giorno said. “So, I bought scissors.”

“Those aren’t for cutting hair,” said Fugo. “There’s a special kind of scissors for that.”

“How different could they be?” Giorno asked. “C’mon, you look terrible.”

He didn’t say it with any malice, and Fugo knew he didn’t mean it to be cruel, but it was difficult not to internalize it.

“Sure,” Fugo said meekly, because Giorno seemed to suck all of the strength from him.

Giorno dragged one of his dining chairs into the middle of the room and gestured for him to sit down. He tugged on Fugo’s shirt and threw it into the pile of laundry at the foot of his bed. Giorno placed the towel around Fugo’s shoulders with a bizarre tenderness and wiped his hands on his pants.

“What kind of cut do you want?” Giorno asked, clicking the scissors.

“I don’t know,” said Fugo. “Shorter, I guess.”

“I can work with that,” Giorno said, running his fingers through Fugo’s hair. “Okay, but we have to wash this first.”

He took Fugo by the hand and led him to the bathroom. Fugo crouched in front of the sink and Giorno turned on the tap.

The water was cold, as he knew it would be, but there was something about Giorno’s warm hands working through his hair that he didn’t even mind.

“Fugo,” Giorno said. “Do you have alopecia?”

“No,” Fugo said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you have a giant bald spot on the back of your head.”

“That’s normal,” Fugo said. “I’ve always had it.”

“So, you have a giant bald spot, but not alopecia.” Giorno said, tugging on Fugo’s hair.

“Yeah,” Fugo said. “I don’t have alopecia.”

“Do you have body hair?” asked Giorno.

“No, not really,” Fugo said. “But it’s blond, so it’s hard to tell.”

“Fugo,” Giorno said sternly. “You have a bald spot and you don’t have body hair. How would you not have alopecia?”

The gears turned in Fugo’s head, but he ground them to a halt.

“I don’t,” Fugo said. “I just don’t.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having alopecia,” Giorno said. He had removed his hands to squirt shampoo onto them. Fugo’s head ached where his hands had been. “Fugo, you’re being an idiot.”

“I…” Fugo started. Occam’s razor suggested the most obvious solution to be true; 1. Fugo had always had a rather large bald spot on the back of his head, but the rest of his hair tended to cover it. 2. Fugo really did not have body hair outside of a couple of wisps on his crotch. Okay, if he thought about it critically, he probably did have alopecia.

“Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of genius?” Giorno asked.

“I…” Fugo’s alleged genius tended not to reach to matters concerning himself. He was an expert at not thinking about himself.

“Whatever,” Giorno said. “I guess I’ll just have to accommodate for this while I cut it.”

He rinsed off Fugo’s hair and took the towel from his shoulders to remove some of the extra water.

He took Fugo’s hand again (Giorno’s were now wet and not nearly as warm) and led him back to the chair in the middle of the apartment.

He took the scissors and plastic comb he’d likely filched from the cosmetics aisle and began.

There weren’t any mirrors outside of his bathroom, so he couldn’t really see what Giorno was doing, he could only hear the snip of the scissors and watch as tufts of his white blond hair drifted to the ground at his feet.

It had been months since he’d hacked at his own hair, sometime at Narancia’s house in the middle of the night. He’d cut himself bangs, but they were barely recognizable as such.

Giorno’s fingers lighted on his scalp, and Fugo shivered.

“Stay still,” he said sharply, and slapped Fugo on the shoulder.

His chest blossomed with heat as he imagined the way his skin reddened. There was something so achingly intimate about Giorno standing behind him, breath soft on his scalp.

He felt himself getting hard and shifted so his hands covered the bulge in his pants. Giorno did not need to know that he was aroused by a goddamn haircut.

“I see you,” Giorno whispered into his ear. “Give me a few more minutes.”

Fugo blushed, and Giorno laughed, high, melodic. The scissors cut through his hair, and he clasped his hands together in his lap.

He closed his eyes and pictured Giorno, Giorno.

The way his blond curls framed his face, the tight pink shirt he wore, the curve of his ass in jeans, Fugo wanted it all.

Every time Fugo closed his eyes, he saw Giorno. When he woke up he thought of Giorno, when he fell asleep. He would say that never in his life he had thought about something so much, but that wasn’t true.

Never in his life had he thought about something good so much. Well, if one could call this good. Between Giorno’s reckless driving and excessive shoplifting, Fugo had broken more laws in the past two weeks than he had in his entire life. And he’d been to juvie for fucks sake.

Giorno reminded him of some of the boys, the ones who postured and spat on the ground and kicked at his shins in the showers. But Giorno was different. He wasn’t compensating for his sexuality, that was for sure. He was secure enough to dress femininely and even wore makeup on occasion, but he always washed it off before he went home. There was something that ran deeper, a cruelty out of obligation rather than inferiority. It felt to Fugo as if Giorno acted the way he did because he’d never seen anything else.

That made him hurt. It was too hard to empathize with him this deeply. It put an ache in his stomach he didn’t know how to deal with, so instead he tried to ground himself by digging his nails into his palms.

“The fuck’re you doing?” Giorno asked. “Stop.”

He slapped at Fugo’s hands, and it was only then he realized he was bleeding.

“Why do you do that?” Giorno asked. “It’s bad for you.”

No shit, Sherlock, Fugo thought. But why do I do it?

“Do what?” Fugo asked, as casually as possible.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Giorno said, stepping in front of Fugo and crossing his arms.

The words hung unsaid in the air between them: Why do you like to hurt?

“I don’t,” Fugo said, which was as honest as he’d been in a long time. “I deserve it, I guess.”

“Why do you deserve it?” Giorno asked, disgusted. “What the hell have you done?”

“I-I, you know,” Fugo said. “I let him use me.”

Giorno’s frown deepened. “What do you mean ‘let’?”

“I would fight back a little, but in the end, it was my fault. I let him.”

“Fugo, he raped you.” Giorno said, voice cool as steel.

“But I liked it!” Fugo cried. “I came.”

“Fugo,” Giorno said, dropping the scissors and kneeling in front of him. “He raped you. It’s still rape even if you have an orgasm.”

“But I didn’t say no!”

Hot anger flashed across Giorno’s face, and Fugo braced himself for a hit that never came.

“You’re too fucking smart to think this way,” said Giorno. “You have to know it’s not your fault.”

Fugo laughed, terrible and high pitched. The sound rang in his ears and made him feel sick.

“It’s always my fault, Giorno,” Fugo said. “You don’t know me well enough to understand.”

“I think I know you better than anyone else does,” Giorno said. “And I think you know that’s not true.”

Fugo felt like he had weights attached to his ankles, holding him down. He remembered what it was like to lie prone beneath Him, to feel his hot breath on his neck, his small cock in his ass, tears running down his face that he couldn’t get to stop.

He was rough, rougher than Giorno. He had bent him over desks, slapped him on the face, pressed bruises into his thighs. He liked to throw Fugo down like he was little more than a doll, like to straddle him and press his hands around Fugo’s throat.

Fugo remembered what it felt like to choke, to see black spots swim in his eyes, his lungs constricting in his chest as he prayed for Him to let go. He always did, always at the critical moment before Fugo slipped into unconsciousness completely.

He’d lie there on his back, too weak to kick or scream or fight back.

“I’m a fuckup,” Fugo said.

“So?” Giorno asked. Fugo looked up. “I’m not gonna tell you that you aren’t, because you are. But that’s trauma, Fugo. I know you’ve read the psych stuff, I know you know you have PTSD and whatever, that you’re fucked up because someone else fucked you up.”

“I was a fuckup before Him,” Fugo said meekly. Giorno wouldn’t, couldn’t understand.

“Argh!” Giorno slammed his hands against his thighs. “Fugo I swear to fucking god, listen to me!”

Fugo clasped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes. He was thirteen again, school had just let out, He was supposed to stay after class, something about a late assignment—

“Fugo,” Giorno grabbed his face and squeezed. “Listen to me.”

Fugo tried to shake his head out of Giorno’s grasp, but he was holding too tight.

“Fugo,” Giorno said. “Open your eyes.”

Fugo kept them shut.

“Fine,” Giorno said, his voice low. “Fugo, I don’t have the right words to say to you. I know there isn’t some magical phrase I can say that’s just right that will make this all okay. I know that our relationship is honestly probably making your issues worse. But I look at you and something inside of me hurts. You make me feel shit, make me feel shit right now, in the moment. I don’t feel alive like I do when I’m with you.

“I’m not saying this because I want to fix you. I’m saying it because I’m sixteen, and I’m afraid. I scared for you and of you. I’m scared of the shit that goes on in that head of yours, scared that you see yourself differently from how I see you.”

Fugo said nothing. The scissors glinted on the floor, reflecting the fading afternoon light. Fugo wondered what would happen if he shoved them into his heart.

Giorno let go of him and Fugo peeked an eye open to see what he was going.

Their eyes met, and Fugo closed his quickly.

Giorno took the scissors and went back to cutting his hair in silence. He seemed to be avoiding touching Fugo as much as possible.

Fugo began to cry. He was still hard; he’d have to deal with that later, but tears pooled down his face and dripped onto his pants.

His khakis were darkened by blood and tears, the fronts of his thighs marred with stains.

Giorno had to notice him crying, but he said nothing. Fugo knew he had nothing left to say.

He’d offered everything he had to Fugo, laid himself bare. And what had Fugo done? Sit there in silence and impetuousness and cry into his lap like a child.

Fugo felt guilty, was guilty. Giorno was as fucked up as he was, if not more because his abuse was still happening. What right did he have to feel bad for himself when Giorno went home tonight, only to return to school tomorrow with a hand braced on his side and a fresh cut running across his ribs?

Fugo was a selfish piece of shit. He was over, done with it. He had made it out the other side. He was supposed to be recovering! And yet he sat in the middle of his apartment and felt ill.

“Will you stay tonight?” Fugo asked, voice cracking. “Not for sex…just, I want to wake up tomorrow and make sure he doesn’t hurt you.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Giorno ran his hands through what was left of Fugo’s hair. “It’s only gonna be worse tomorrow.”

Fugo began to cry again, shaking sobs that wracked his frame.

“Hey,” Giorno said in a rough suggestion of soothing. “Hey, it’s okay, I’ll stay.”

Fugo wanted the strength to tell him, no go home, I’ll be fine. It’s not worth risking your safety over, but he wouldn’t and he couldn’t and he felt so raw.

Giorno stood behind him and wrapped his hands around Fugo’s chest, tucking his head against Fugo’s newly bared neck. Giorno’s hands pressed right where his heart should be, and his breath whispered against the shell of Fugo’s ear.

Fugo wanted to stay like this forever, to be connected to Giorno at all of these focal points, to sink into each other and become one. He never ever wanted to let go.

But Giorno let go, and he guided Fugo to the shower, and he sat propped up on the sink as Fugo scrubbed the hair from his body, pointing at his back and shoulders when he missed some. He was there when Fugo got out of the shower, and hugged him despite Fugo’s being dripping wet, despite how cold his skin was to the touch.

They ate together on the couch, sharing a can of beans and a can of tuna, dipping into them with forks and not meeting each others eyes.

And then Fugo did his homework, and Giorno sat looking where the TV should be and played on his phone, scrolling through Instagram or Tik Tok or Twitter, snorting out of his nose occasionally.

Then it was late enough where Fugo didn’t feel guilty about how heavy his eyelids were and he beckoned Giorno and they both fell into his bed, tangled in each other’s arms.

Fugo curled against Giorno’s chest, grateful for the warmth he provided. They both slept small, knees to their chests and hands clasped tight. It took them a while to get settled, but when they did, Fugo’s heart was racing too much for him to fall asleep.

Giorno,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

And he pressed a kiss to the hollow of Giorno’s chest and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Notes:

so,, this fic is coming to a conclusion soon. This chapter was really difficult to write, and I really tried to undercut some of the horribleness with levity. I really hope I didn't trigger anyone, as that's not my intention. I am not trying to use Fugo's abuse as shock value, rather a very real thing that happens to very real people, albeit accessed in a more dramatic way here.

Anyway, for those of you who don't know, alopecia is a condition that causes partial or full balding, and affects all genders, sometimes from a young age.

Chapter 12: Miserable

Summary:

no major triggers (other than a bit of food stuff) for this chapter.

Fugo and Giorno skip school, and Mista drags Fugo somewhere he never thought he'd have to go back to.

Notes:

Chapter title is Miserable by Lit (same band as title).

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

Chapter Text

When Fugo awoke in the morning, he wasn’t quite sure where he was. The scratchy sheets and lumpy pillow suggested his apartment, but the warm body next to him took him back to the Ghirga household.

He blinked his eyes open and was met with Giorno’s soft features, made even more delicate in the morning light.

He looked so much younger like this. So often Giorno seemed ethereal, the kind of kids you see on TV, twenty-five-year-olds playacting at being teenagers. But pressed up against the wall, hands clutched at his chest, Giorno didn’t seem like he was any more than sixteen.

Fugo just lay there, watching. He normally felt too guilty to stare, capping himself at peripheral glances and averted eyes, but with Giorno so wholly asleep, there was nothing keeping him from just watching.

“G’morning, Wuoronos,” Giorno said, stretching his hands above him. “You like what you see?”

“Wuornos?” Fugo asked.

“Aileen Wuronos, sex worker, shot seven johns,” Giorno said, rubbing his eyes. “You’re hopelessly uneducated about your own kind, Fugo.”

Fugo rolled his eyes. “I thought we established I didn’t even kill one guy.”

“Serial killer in training,” Giorno said, poking Fugo’s cheek. “We’ll make a murderer out of you yet.”

“I never peed the bed,” Fugo said. “Or lit fires.”

“But did you torture animals?” Giorno asked.

“Of course not!” Fugo said. “I could never.”

“Good,” Giorno said. “A little fire never hurt anyone, but animal abuse crosses the line.”

Fugo wanted to argue that fire had definitely hurt a lot of people a lot of times, but if this was Giorno’s prerogative, it wasn’t a worthwhile practice to argue with him.

“Hey,” Giorno said. He was looking at Fugo like he either wanted to kiss him or eat him. It was difficult to tell the difference.

“Hey,” Fugo responded. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be kissed or eaten.

“School starts in an hour,” Giorno said.

“Yup,” Fugo said.

“We should get moving.” Giorno said.

“We should,” Fugo said.

They both lay there, unmoving.

“You wanna ditch?” Giorno asked finally.

“Fuck yeah,” Fugo said.

“Well, come here then, Cruz,” Giorno opened his arms.

“Cruz?”

“Ted Cruz, the Zodiac Killer.” Giorno said.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a joke,” Fugo laughed and slotted himself against Giorno.

“I’m pretty sure you’re a joke,” Giorno said against Fugo’s ear.

“You’re the worst,” Fugo said, and found that he wasn’t really sure if he meant it.

#

They spent the day in bed and didn’t bother to get out for more than a few minutes at a time. It wasn’t until a sharp knock sounded at the door that Fugo bothered to rouse himself enough to shuffle over to the door and open it.

“Woah,” Mista said. “Are you in your underwear?”

“I was sleeping,” Fugo said crossly. “Why are you here?”

Fugo was freaking the fuck out. Why was Mista here? What if he saw Giorno?

“Who’s there?” Giorno asked.

“Hey Giorno,” Mista said cheerfully, shoving the door open and muscling his way past Fugo. “What’re you doing here?”

Fugo didn’t think there was much room for interpretation, between their combined nakedness and the obvious displacement of two people sharing a bed that was far too small, but Mista was always able to surprise him with his lack of intuitiveness. An ESFP through and through. Okay, maybe an ESTP, but the difference didn’t matter. They were essentially polar opposites (despite the whole thing essentially being pseudo-science. Fugo like Jung as much as the next guy, but the it wasn’t rooted in concrete provable fact, and there was little that satiated Fugo like hard evidence.).

“Just hanging out,” Giorno lied with practiced ease. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to check in on Fugo,” Mista said. “And then I saw your car parked outside and I got worried. I was gonna check up on you next, but man, your house scares me. So, I was kinda glad you were both here, so I wouldn’t have to talk to your parents. The vibes are so nasty.”

Giorno bristled, but Mista didn’t notice. He prattled on a little longer about how worried they’d all been, and how much he’d missed them in class. Apparently, Trish had said something so funny, but he couldn’t even repeat it because you had to be there.

Fugo smiled awkwardly and held his hands over his crotch. He wasn’t hard, but the underwear was old and tight, and he didn’t really want Mista seeing the outline of his dick. Giorno, despite wearing a shirt that he could have totally covered himself with, shared little of his shame and was manspreading hard at the edge of his bed.

Mista had to have noticed, but he did a good job keeping his gaze level with their eyes.

This went on for far longer than Fugo was comfortable and was only interrupted with Mista turned to face him and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Did you get a haircut?” he asked.

No shit, thought Fugo. He’d looked in the mirror and found that the majority of his lank blonde hair had been chopped off, and he now had a close messy crop that almost made him look good.

“Yeah,” Fugo said. Giorno did it.

“That’s cool!” Mista said. “I fucking hate haircuts. I just do it myself, and it always looks like shit.”

“We know,” Giorno said. “I don’t think Fugo has ever seen you without your hat.”

“And it’s going to stay that way,” Mista said, laughing. “You’re lucky you got to see my hair a couple of times.”

Unlike Mista, Fugo was perceptive enough to notice the tension that developed at the mention of Mista’s hair.

Giorno definitely seemed experienced, and assuming that he and Mista had hooked up wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, but something about it made his toes curl.

“Anyway,” Giorno said after a beat had passed. “Now that you’ve checked up on us, you can go.”

“No way,” Mista said. “C’mon, we’re going to Narancia’s house.”

“No,” Fugo said sharply, and both Mista and Giorno turned to look at him. “I mean, I’m not up to it.”

“Well you guys sure as hell weren’t taking a sick day,” Mista laughed. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Leone and Bruno’ll be there.”

Fugo tried to meet Giorno’s eyes, but he was already staring at Fugo intently. He definitely wanted to eat him.

“Fine,” Fugo said, because it was clear that arguing wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

“I’ll drive,” Giorno offered, standing up and stretching his hands above his head. “Let me just get dressed.”

Fugo also got dressed, scavenging for clothes that didn’t smell like lint from the pile Giorno had shoved under his bed.

He managed the jeans from the party, a couple of shirts layered on top of one another, and some mismatched socks.

“It’s fucking freezing in here,” Mista said. “Why don’t you have the heat on?”

“S’broken,” Fugo said.

“Oh, sucks,” Mista nodded. “Well, you can borrow my jacket if you don’t have one.”

“I’m good,” Fugo said, but Mista was already peeling it off.

“Not a choice, bud,” Mista said. “Consider it yours.”

Fugo flushed. The jacket was far too big on him, sleeves hanging down to the end of his middle fingers, but it was warm, and it smelled like Mista, a mix of pine and boy, salty sweat and cheap aftershave. 

“Looks good,” Giorno said, buttoning his jeans.

Fugo blushed again, but this time he had the foresight to bury his face in his hands.

Mista slapped his shoulder and guided him to the door. Giorno toed into his Converse and laced them up with practiced ease. Fugo followed suit and leaned against the door for support. He grabbed his keys and ushered them out.

After locking up behind him, the three of them walked down the stairs, Mista’s voice reverberating in the small space.

Mista aimed for the passenger seat, so Fugo made his way to the back.

“No,” Giorno said. “Fugo sits up here with me.”

Fugo’s face was at this point was bright red.

“Your car, your rules,” Mista said.

Fugo sat in the passenger while Giorno fucked with the mirrors, even though they didn’t need fucking with. He kept meeting Fugo’s eyes for a fraction of a second and then looking away, like he couldn’t help himself from staring.

The drive took half as much time as it should, with Giorno using stop signs as loose suggestions and turn signals optional, wheels churning against the pavement hot enough to make sparks.

Finally; Narancia Ghirga’s house. He hadn’t seen it since the party, hadn’t been inside of it since June.

Giorno parked. He and Mista got out of the car, and he looked at Fugo expectantly.

He opened the car door (the same one that had smashed his hand all those weeks before, how things change) and stepped onto the grass.

Mista slung his arm around Fugo’s shoulder and nearly dragged him across the lawn.

The Ghirga household was the perfect American dream, minus the picket fence. Sky blue paint, black roof, an old bike on the porch and some wild flowers growing in garden boxes.

“My mom used to love gardening,” Narancia said. “She always planted stuff for the different seasons, like peonies and poppies and shit. I mostly forget which ones were which, but I always remember that carrots are for the winter.”

“Hey,” Mista shook him. “Ring the doorbell.”

Fugo was about to open his mouth and tell them that it didn’t work, he knew that well enough, but he paused when he saw one of those new fancy doorbells with the little camera.

“You’re taking too long,” Giorno said, shoving him out of the way (how his hand brushed unnecessarily over Fugo’s chest).

The bell chimed, and Fugo heard the familiar scrambling of Narancia struggling for the door.

His dad beat him to it.

“Hey Mi—” He saw Fugo and paused. “Fugo. You cut your hair.”

Fugo said nothing. He wanted nothing more than to shrivel into himself and disappear. By the disappointed glare alone, Fugo knew Narancia had at least given his dad some of the details.

“Dad, Dad, it’s—” It was Narancia’s turn to stare, and he didn’t do nearly as good of a job as his father at keeping his face neutral. “Hey Mista. You didn’t say you were bringing…”

“I thought it would be nice,” said Mista cluelessly. “Water doesn’t burn bridges and all that.”

“Hello,” Fugo squeaked out, more than a little late. “I can go if—”

“You’re staying.” Mista gripped his forearm hard enough to bruise. “He’s staying.”

“Welcome in, I guess,” Narancia’s father said. “I’ll be uh…”

He walked deeper into the house, and by the sound of it, broke into the liquor cabinet.

“Hey guys,” Narancia said, rubbing his hands together almost obsessively. “So, uh, wanna play Smash?”

“Sure,” Mista said. “Are Leone and Bruno here yet?”

“You invited Leone and Bruno?” Narancia asked, voice jumping an octave. “Well, no, they aren’t.”

“All good!” Mista said, yanking Fugo through the door. “It’s gonna be so fun.”

“Did you invite Trish?” Narancia asked.

“Yeah, but she’s busy today,” Mista said. “Prior engagements and all that.”

“She’s the worst,” Narancia said. “Always doing shit when I want to hang out.”

“You got snacks?” Giorno asked.

“Uh, yeah, you know where they are.” Narancia waved him off. “Mista and I will go set up.”

As they moved upstairs to Narancia’s room, Fugo could hear the shrill screams of Narancia asking Mista “Why did you fucking invite him? I told you, you sack of shit, I don’t want him in my house, you never fucking listen—”

When they made it to the kitchen, Giorno grabbed him by the waist and he felt his heart jump in his chest.

“Weird being back?” he asked.

“Don’t,” Fugo said, knocking his hand away.

“Oh, you don’t like it?” Giorno asked, voice all sultry. He boxed Fugo against the wall and slotted his hands against him.

“What if someone sees?” Fugo said, trying to wriggle out of Giorno’s grasp.

“What if?” Giorno asked, ducking his head so his lips brushed Fugo’s neck. “What’s the worst that’ll happen?”

“Giorno, I—”

“So, you were right, Leone,” Bruno’s voice carried across the room. “They are fucking.”

Bruno and Abbacchio must have let themselves in. It seemed like the sort of thing they would do.

“Was it ever a question?” Abbacchio asked, his voice low. “It was a matter of when, not if.”

Fugo wanted to scream.

“Please don’t tell,” he begged. “If anyone finds out—”

“Your secret is safe with us,” Bruno said. “Your dirty little secret.”

Fugo flushed, and shoved Giorno off him.

“Don’t be such a baby, Gacy,” Giorno said. “It’s Bruno and Leone, they’re not gonna say anything.”

While Fugo had been squeezing his eyes shut hoping everything would disappear if he could just wake up, Abbacchio crept up behind him, and ran his fingers through what was left of his hair.

“I like it,” he said. His hands were big, warm, and calloused. How different from Giorno’s nimble, clever fingers. “Suits you.”

Fugo managed to sputter out a thanks.

“I feel like we’re ignoring the most important thing,” Giorno said, grabbing Fugo’s arm and pulling him away from Abbacchio’s grasp. “And that’s what snacks should we eat?”

The Ghirga household, for lack of a better term, was fucking stacked. They essentially cleared out entire Costco aisles with the contents of their kitchen.

Giorno flung the cabinet open with far too much bravado and surveyed their options. The snacks, at least, were familiar enough: pretzels in a sixty-four-ounce plastic container; multiple family sized Oreo packs stacked precariously, boasting seasonal specialties like Halloween and candy corn; boxes upon boxes of Arizona tea; giant bags of Takis and Hot Cheetos; multiple sacks full of individual portions of assorted Lay’s chips; Gushers and Fruit by the Foot galore; and finally, the holy grail, a box with every type of sugar cereal imaginable.

“Let them eat cake,” Giorno said, pinching Fugo’s cheek. “You ever see a spread like this before?”

Fugo didn’t bother to remind him that he’d practically lived here a year before. It didn’t feel worth it.

Mayhem ensued: each of the boys grabbed as much food as they could carry in their arms (the staggering difference between Abbacchio’s gargantuan wingspan and Fugo’s own meagre breadth) and dragged it up the stairs to Narancia’s room.

They found Mista and Narancia already plugged in, shoving each other as much in real life as they were punching each other in the game.

“Food!” Mista’s eyes lit up, and he wasted a precious second in which Narancia landed a powerful smack at his hands and knocked the controller free. “Fuck you!”

“Fuck your mom,” Narancia shot back, laughing nasally.

“Glad to see we brought the average IQ up by about fifty points,” Giorno said, settling himself down on Narancia’s unmade bed. “Narancia, what’re you at, sixty-nine?”

“I wish,” he said, and Mista laughed.

“You wish? That would make you a dumb sack of shit.” Mista had paused the game, and beckoned Bruno over. “Give me some of that.”

He peeled the top away and shoved four Oreos in his mouth.

“Don’t eat all my fucking Oreos!” Narancia cried, swatting at Mista, who just barely managed to dodge.

“They aren’t yours,” Mista shot a kick at him, sending him sliding across the wood floor. “They’re ours, Comrade.”

“I’m not a communist!” Narancia shouted.

“No need to go all McCarthy, Narancia,” Bruno said. “We are all simple democratic socialists.”

If Fugo had really cared, he would have said that he was more of a neoliberal free market capitalist, but he wasn’t sure how well that would go over with this particular crowd. Capitalism hadn’t treated them particularly well, but granted, it hadn’t treated him particularly well either, so maybe it was time to rethink his economic theory.

“Fugo, pass the Twizzlers,” Giorno said, kicking his leg. “I’m hungry.”

“These are Red Vines,” Fugo said. “This is a Red Vine house.”

Narancia met his eyes, and he grimaced. What authority did he have to tell Giorno what kind of house this was? For all he knew, they’d switched over to Twizzlers in the four months he’d been gone.

Was it really four months? Half of June, July, August, September, half of October. Four whole months.

Fugo couldn’t think of anything with an incubation period of four months, or really any sort of thing measured in such a chunk of time, but four months held a weight to it.

“Fugo, the fucking licorice,” Giorno said impatiently, kicking him harder. “Give them to me.”

Fugo handed the tub wordlessly to Giorno, who popped over the top and stuck his hand in with wild abandon.

As he shoveled candy into his mouth, Giorno made eye contact with him, and Fugo swore that motherfucker winked at him.

He wasn’t sure if it felt like a sucker punch or butterflies, but it had made him feel something.

“Pass that to me,” Mista said, straining his long arms and shoving them into the Red Vines container. “M’hungry.”

“You literally have all of those Oreos,” Giorno said, trying to bat his hand away.

“It’s not the same,” Mista said. “They’re two completely different food groups.”

Fugo’s limited nutritional knowledge told him little more than that the food pyramid was fake, a long con run by Big Grain to sell more wheat, but beyond that, food groups were a mystery to him. In all honesty, food was a mystery to him. He’d just grabbed Narancia’s favorites out of reflex.

“C’mere,” Giorno said, yanking him by the arm so he fell onto Narancia’s bed. “You should have some, they’re good.”

Fugo felt all of the life drain from his body, but he forced a polite smile for Giorno.

“I’m good,” he said. He quickly shifted himself, so they weren’t in such an incriminating position.

“Eat,” Giorno said, and it was a command. Imperative. When Fugo had been studying Latin, he struggled a lot with conjugation, but imperative had always been easy.

Sedē, remanē, tacē.

Commands he understood.

Fugo allowed his mouth to open as Giorno guided the food in. How domestic, intimate. He wondered what it looked like to an observer, Giorno’s slender, delicate hand pressing ropes of red licorice into Fugo’s waiting mouth.

He chewed slowly, methodically, and as expected, tasted nothing. Even the texture of it was missing, unidentifiable sludge that slid down his throat and pooled in his stomach.

Fugo took the time to finally look around Narancia’s room.

The same cheap posters from Target, bookshelf with more vinyl figures than actual books, plates and laundry in piles across the floor. It even smelled the same, a little stale, a little musky. Narancia never really opened the window.

Despite its familiarity, there was something off. If one asked Fugo to tell them what exactly it was that was different, he wouldn’t have been able to say, but he knew that it was wrong somehow.

Maybe it was Giorno next to him, their thighs pressed together on Narancia’s bed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. In this room, it’d always been him and Narancia, inseparable halves of a unit of supreme chaos. Narancia’s dad would come throw the door open and tell them to “Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to do some goddamn work!” and Fugo and Narancia would press their hands to their mouths to keep from giggling.

He remembered how it felt to be pressed down into this particular mattress, sweet taste of iced tea and Narancia’s tongue probing his mouth. Always too much tongue. Giorno was more about teeth.

He shook his head. This was what was wrong. This was a sacred space, somewhere he shared with Narancia. And now he was intruding on it with his new, well, whatever it was he and Giorno were. It was fucked, and he knew it.

This was why no one else could find out. If Narancia knew that he and Giorno were anything more than friends, he’d flip his shit. He always had a temper, not nearly as bad as Fugo’s own, but he’d inherited enough from his dad to throw things, mostly cans and bottle and things that weren’t likely to break on impact. For all of his faults, Narancia could be incredibly thoughtful when looking out for his own future self.

“Hey,” Giorno slapped him lightly, and he relished the sting. “Lost you for a sec, Ramirez.”

Mista and Narancia were playing Smash again, and Bruno and Abbacchio were egging them on. Abbacchio was being as inflammatory as possible, making snide remarks every time one of them fucked up, while Bruno stood behind him and played with his hair.

Fugo wondered if he could be with Giorno the way Abbacchio was with Bruno? The casualness of it, easy glances, hands together, synchrony and simplicity.

He shook the thought from his head. Bruno and Abbacchio belonged together, that much was clear. They had been friends for ages, and probably always would be. Bruno and Abbacchio weren’t as dysfunctional as they were. They were two people that slotted together just right. Fugo and Giorno were jagged pieces that didn’t quite fit.

But as Bruno ran his fingers through Abbacchio’s silvery hair, chin resting on his shoulder, Fugo felt bad.

Between the embarrassment and shame of Giorno next to him and the jealousy of Bruno and Abbacchio standing next to each other, just being, Fugo felt like he was going to be sick. He wriggled his way out of Giorno’s grasp and slid off the bed.

“Bathroom,” he said to no one in particular. “I’ll be right back.”

The hall was just as he remembered it, dusty carpet, framed pictures askew. He stopped just outside of Narancia’s father’s bedroom and looked at the picture of his mother.

“She’s always looking down on me,” Narancia said, and Fugo had to keep himself from remarking about how he’d worded it. “She’s in Heaven with Grandma and Grandpa, and she’s waiting for me.”

Fugo thought of his own Grandma. He liked the idea that he’d get to see her again, to sit in her lap like he had when he was a child and listen to her talk about her life before. She would go to Heaven, surely. She was a good woman, maybe not religious, but she always did the right thing. He wondered where her kind soul had gotten lost in the gene pool by the time they trickled down to him.

“Fugo?” Narancia gripped his arm. “Are you going to say anything?”

Fugo bit his tongue. “Yeah, that’s really nice Narancia. I bet she’s proud of you.”

Narancia smiled, really smiled, the kind where his lips stretched so far across his face, Fugo thought he might rip in half. He rewarded Fugo with a kiss on the nose, and grabbed his hand.

“She’s proud of you, too,” Narancia said. “One day we’ll all be in Heaven together and you can really meet her. She’d love you.”

Looking at the photo now, he wondered what Narancia whispered to his mother in the night before he went to bed. He remembered their arms wrapped around each other and Narancia whispered a list of things under his breath he wanted to share. Fugo had listened silently because he knew he didn’t deserve to be on that list.

He wondered what Narancia’s mom thought of him now, standing in her house and fucking over her son.

Fugo then thought of his own mom, and what she would think of him.

He felt sick then, really sick, and ran the rest of the way to the bathroom. It wasn’t the time or place to get back into that.

As he washed his hands, he avoided his gaunt face. He knew that if he looked, he wouldn’t find anything there at all.

Notes:

A little over 3k, but the chapter hadn't quite wrapped itself up yet. Anyway, here's to the narancia fans who finally get to see some of him doing stuff, without sacrificing the FuGio.

For those of you who don't speak latin, or who don't want to bother with google translate, it reads: Sit. Stay. Shut up. Hm, I wonder why he remembers those phrases.

Anyway, sorry for the increased breaks between publishing. School is back in full swing, and it's so much easier to sit in my bed and watch HunterxHunter than it is to sit down and actually work on this.

Regardless, your continued support means the world to me. Seeing kudos and comments and bookmarks fills me with so much gratification, and knowing that 1500 people (okay, probably fewer, given the repeat hits, but I digress) have read this, and 120 of them actually liked it makes my fucking year. So much of writing is not knowing whether your friends actually like it or whether they're being nice, but you, internet strangers, don't know me and don't owe me anything.

Anyway, this has dragged on a little much, but I am very grateful to everyone who reads this. Writing it has been so cathartic (healthy coping mechanism according to my therapist who I love very much) and I'm glad other people have found something good in it to.

love,

toothfaerie <3<3

Chapter 13: Song for a Guilty Sadist

Summary:

in which the bucci gang plays smash and giorno is kind of a dick.

Notes:

chapter title is song for a guilty sadist by crywank, recomended to me by @pekoyamas

no tw here, just a lot of angst.

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

Chapter Text

When he pushed the door to Narancia’s room back open he found Giorno waiting for him. He tackled Fugo roughly and dragged him down to the floor.

“Hey!” he cried, kicking wildly. “Let go!”

Mista cackled, reaching over to hit him on the head.

“Watch the shelf!” Narancia said setting his controller down and clambering over to them. “Don’t knock anything down!”

Fugo managed to untangle himself from Giorno, but not before Narancia dove headfirst into the both of them, sending them tumbling into the bookshelf.

“You fuckface!” Narancia said angrily, swatting indiscriminately at the two of them. “You knocked over my shit!”

Indeed, one of Narancia’s little figurines had fallen, some anime girl with giant tits.

“It’s kind of your fault, though,” Giorno said. “We were fine until you knocked us over again.”

Narancia didn’t seem to hear him as he continued to wail on them, fists hammering on them with wild abandon.

Fugo managed to wiggle his way out, but Giorno had curled into a ball. All of his earlier resolve had dissipated, and he seemed to be muttering to himself as Narancia’s blows got more aggressive.

“Stop!” Fugo said, grabbing his arm. “You’re hurting him.”

He shoved and while Narancia didn’t budge, he did stop hitting Giorno.

“Don’t be like that,” Narancia said. “We’re just messing around.”

“Yeah, Fugo,” Giorno said icily from fetus position. “We’re just playing around. Don’t be a freak.”

Fugo’s heart thudded in his chest. The look in Giorno’s eyes was pure venom.

“I-I’m sorry,” he said, curling his knees to his chest. “I just—”

“Shut up,” Giorno said, sitting up. “We were just messing around, it’s none of your fucking business.”

Fugo’s stomach dropped, and he hugged his hands around himself tighter. Giorno reached out to Narancia and helped him up. Giorno brushed off his pants and turned to look down at him.

“Don’t be a freak, Fugo,” he said.

“Be nice,” said Mista. “He doesn’t mean it, Fugo.”

“Whatever,” Giorno said. “Someone give me an Arizona.”

Narancia grabbed one from the box next to the bed and tossed it to him. He caught it easily and popped the tab.

Fugo watched him as he took a sip, his eyes closed against the setting sun. The light slanted through the window and across his face, highlighting his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw.

“You wanna play a round?” Mista asked, throwing a Cheeto at him. “I’m kicking Narancia’s ass right now.”

“Are not,” Narancia said, settling back next to Mista. “You only have one stock left and I have two.”

“No, I have—oh fuck you’re right.” Mista laughed. “RIP, I guess. Fugo, you can play winner if you want.”

“I’m good,” Fugo said, eyes still trained on Giorno as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I’m not good at it anyway.”

“Yeah, Fugo is really bad at Smash,” Narancia said, and covered his mouth. “I mean, whatever, who cares.”

Fugo felt his face flush. “He’s right, I am pretty bad.”

“Still,” Mista said, pressing play. “I can’t wait to kick your ass!”

They mashed the buttons aggressively, music and sound effects reverberating through the small room. Bruno and Abbacchio had taken over the bed with their shoes still on, but Narancia either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Giorno was still standing there, Arizona can up in front of his face like he was reading the ingredients. Giorno ducked his eyes down to Fugo’s, and quickly flicked them away when he met Fugo’s gaze.

“Hey Fugo,” Mista called. “What do you main?”

“Uh, I dunno,” said Fugo.

“C’mon, you have to know,” said Mista. “I’m a Snake guy myself.”

“You always used to main Meta Knight,” Narancia said. “Do you still want to play as him?”

Fugo couldn’t quite meet Narancia’s eyes, but he could feel Giorno’s boring into them with vested interest.

“Yeah, I’ll play Meta Knight,” Fugo said slowly. “Do you still play Samus?”

“Obviously,” Narancia said, handing him the remote. “He’s the fucking best.”

“Dipshit,” Mista said, smacking Narancia upside the head. “Samus is a girl.”

“Shut up, no he’s not,” Narancia said.

“She literally is,” Mista said. “Look it’s a fucking chick.”

“Dude no way, they must have changed it or something,” Narancia said. “Whatever let’s just play.”

Mista laughed and punched him lightly. “Good luck, idiot.”

Fugo won the first round, but he suspected that Mista had let him win. Fugo’s strategy primarily consisted of him hitting as many of the buttons as possible, and this led to him falling off the ledge multiple times.

Despite his initial “luck” he was quickly defeated in a rematch, and when Narancia subbed in for Mista, he knew he was doomed.

Narancia, for all his inability, was quite adept at video games. He spent more time playing them than he did everything else, and he had a knack for PvP battles. Well, maybe he just seemed really good compared to Fugo, but it was always fun to play him in whatever game, slapping at each other, yelling, and calling each other names.

There was a stony silence as they started, an awkward sort of air that hung around them as they faced off. Fugo wished that Narancia hadn’t broken the third controller, and that Mista could sit between them and jostle him with his broad shoulders.

The game was over quickly. Narancia was focused on the screen, his fingers dancing over the buttons, slamming Fugo with combo after combo.

When he was inevitably defeated, he eagerly passed his controller off to Mista, and moved back to lean against the bed next to Giorno. Giorno was sitting cross-legged, and he had the box of Oreos in his lap. He handed one to Fugo who ate it reluctantly.

Giorno broke another in half and licked the cream from the middle. He ate the other cookie and handed the one that had been in his mouth to Fugo.

“I’m not eating that,” Fugo said. “That’s gross.”

“What’s wrong?” Giorno said, as if he hadn’t slobbered all over it.

“Nothing,” Fugo said, rolling his eyes. He still wasn’t quite over the vitriol from earlier, but if Giorno wanted to make nice, he wasn’t going to complain.

He allowed him to press the cookie into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Above him, Bruno and Abbacchio laid prone, mouths hungry. Giorno placed his hand on Fugo’s thigh absently and trailed the inseam of his pants.

Narancia and Mista were too busy screaming and squabbling to notice, but Fugo shoved him away regardless.

They sat like that for a while, but eventually Mista grew bored and foisted his controller onto Giorno, who happily played as Kirby, spending more time trying to eat Narancia’s character than actually playing the game.

Mista sat next to him and chattered on about school and teachers and life, and Fugo largely just tuned him out. He was more focused on the fluorescent light on Giorno’s hair, dulling the gold. Narancia too, looked more approachable, streetlight illuminating his black hair and casting shadows down his torso.

Fugo couldn’t help but feel a tugging in his stomach, a sort of longing he’d tried so hard to quell.

“I love you,” Narancia had said for the first time. “I really, really, love you.”

“Me too,” Fugo had said, not trusting himself to say it aloud. “Wanna make out?”

“Sure,” Narancia had giggled, bringing his hands up to his face and covering his mouth. Fugo moved them out of the way and brought their lips together.

He pulled them down with their bodyweight, lying flat on his back with Narancia’s dark hair pooling down around his head.

He’d dug his fingers into the front of Narancia’s unfortunate creeper hoodie and tried to pull him as far into the mattress as he could, melding their bodies together.

Narancia’s erection ground against his thigh, and he was sure his was doing the same. He pulled their mouths apart and bared his neck, hoping Narancia would bite it.

Instead, he placed the same gentle and sloppy kisses there as he did on his face, and Fugo instinctively shoved him away.

“What’s wrong?” Narancia asked, eyes wide with hurt. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Why don’t you bite me?” Fugo asked, almost embarrassed. “Can you try to be a little rougher?”

“Uh…” Narancia said, pausing to shove his bangs out of his eyes. “I guess I can try.”

And try he did; Narancia’s bites were as gentle as his kisses, more scraping than anything else. Fugo grabbed him by the back of the head and tried to muscle him into it, but it wasn’t long before Narancia beat on his arm in an effort to stop.

“I don’t like this, Fugo,” Narancia said. “I know you want me to do this, but it doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not hurting me,” Fugo lied. “It feels good.”

“I guess,” Narancia said, and his bites became more forceful, but there was less enthusiasm behind them.

“Fugo,” Mista’s voice snapped him back to the present. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Oh, I’m okay,” said Fugo.

“Well, we’re ordering food, so you should get something.” Mista was scrolling through a Chinese take-out menu on his phone. “What do you like?”

“We’ll get the honey walnut shrimp,” Giorno said. “That’s Fugo’s favorite.”

This was not true; Fugo was a huge fan of kung pao chicken, but there was no reason for Giorno to know that. Not to mention, he had a mild seafood allergy that had him break out into hives.

“He’s allergic to shrimp,” Narancia said. “So I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Fugo couldn’t look at either of them, Giorno with his resentful malice, and Narancia with a sort of pity.

“I’ll just have whatever,” Fugo said. “I’m not picky.”

“We’re eating this family style, are we not?” Abbacchio’s voice came from the bed. “Bruno wants lo mein and I want beef and broccoli.”

“I think that four, uh, five dishes should be enough,” Narancia said, counting out the members of the room on his fingers. “And we’ll get rice, so that should be fine.”

“Works for me,” said Mista. “And don’t worry, I’ll pay.”

“Dude, no,” said Narancia. “My house, I pay.”

It was abundantly clear that neither of them actually wanted to pay, but years of good manners had instilled in them the necessity to try and fight it out.

“You guys could split it,” Giorno suggested. “That works for me.”

“Well obviously it works for you,” Narancia said, annoyed. “Are none of you guys going to offer anything?”

“I have a little bit of cash,” Fugo said. “But I don’t think it’s enough—”

“Dude, you’re not eve ordering an entrée, you don’t have to pay us,” Mista said, and Narancia shot him a dirty look. “Bruno, Leone?”

“Here,” Bruno said, and threw a bill folded into a little airplane. “That should cover it.”

Narancia unfolded it and found a fifty. His eyes visibly widened, and he gripped onto it tightly.

“What’s the total?” he asked Mista.

“Fifty-five,” Mista said. “I can pay for ten—”

“You don’t have to pay, man, it’s fine, I got it.” Narancia said. “Just put the order in and I’ll pay when he gets here.”

“Okay,” Mista said, sounding a little relieved. “But I think that means I have to call it in, instead of DoorDash.”

“It’s literally cheaper if you call it,” Giorno said. “Don’t be a dipshit.”

“Okay, okay,” Mista said. “But I’m gonna go into the hallway because you’re all too fucking loud.”

The second he stepped out, a silence fell over the room. Narancia was inspecting the fifty to make sure it was real, and Bruno and Abbacchio had returned to their previous activities of trying to give each other as many hickies as possible. That left Giorno who was staring unabashedly at Fugo, mouthing curses at him.

Fugo rolled his eyes again and patted the spot next to him. Giorno dropped his controller and crawled over, settling himself next to Fugo.

“Hey Zodiac,” Giorno said softly.

“I think you’ve done that one already,” said Fugo.

“Nah, I said Ted Cruz which was a joke, so technically this one is still up for grabs.” Giorno squeezed his thigh, pressing his finger into the meat of his skin hard enough to bruise.

“Okay,” Fugo said, trying to hold back a smile.

“Hey,” Narancia said, snapping them out of their revelry. “Uh…” He trailed off, apparently unsure of what he was going to say. “Whatever.”

“Okay,” Giorno said, reaching over to flick him. “Whatever you say, squirt.”

Fugo did not like the way that made him feel. He did not like Giorno calling anyone other than him anything other than their name, but he wasn’t sure how to express that.

Despite Giorno looking at Narancia, his hand was still on Fugo’s leg, and his thumb was brushing at a steady rhythm. It was altogether too close to Fugo’s cock for comfort, and he knew that if he spent any longer in this position, there would be nothing he could do to hide his erection.

He slapped Giorno’s hand away as casually as possible and reached for the Oreos.  He put one in his mouth and chewed quickly, trying to get the mass of it down his throat.

Before he could swallow, Mista pushed the door back open and sat down on his other side, reaching over him to muss Giorno’s hair.

“Watch it,” Giorno said.

“Don’t be a baby,” Mista smiled broadly, and shoved his phone into his pocket. “Food’ll be here in half an hour.”

Fugo pulled his phone partially out his pocked and checked the time. It was just past 5:40pm, and the sun had already ducked below the horizon. He definitely wasn’t hungry, but he could hear Giorno’s stomach growl next to him.

Fugo leaned back into the bed and tried to disassociate.

He remembered the last time he’d eaten dinner at the Ghirga’s, some microwavable casserole Narancia’s dad had bought from Vons. They’d all sat around the dining table, and Fugo had smiled awkwardly while they said grace, trying to avoid looking at the framed photo of Narancia’s mother hanging over the mantle.

He’d eaten politely, of course, but the casserole was not good enough to demand seconds.

In all honesty, Fugo couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone back for seconds of anything, at least before Giorno had shown up and forced it down his throat.

Giorno was crunching on some chips and was trying to tie some of the licorice into knots. Fugo looked at him briefly before averting his eyes.

It had been so easy to look at him that morning, his golden face pressed deep into the pillow. Fugo wished he had better words to describe the serenity of his sleeping face, the way his almond eyes rested gently shut, the curve of his lip.

There was a marked difference in Giorno’s expression now, a hardness that lay just below the surface. He had a set to his jaw, and his eyes were steely and cold. Gone was the soft angel of the morning, replaced with someone seemingly so full of anger and hate.

“What’re you staring at?” Giorno snapped.

“I-uh…nothing,” Fugo stammered. “Sorry.”

“Whatever,” Giorno said, but a smile played at the corner of his mouth.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Fugo said, standing up.

“Didn’t you just go like fifteen minutes ago?” Giorno asked.

“I have to go again,” Fugo said, hoping it came out forceful. “Shut up.”

He disentangled himself from the pile of bodies on the floor and picked his way over snack containers to the door. He got a better view of Bruno and Abbacchio from this angle. Abbacchio was lying on his back, and Bruno had pulled most of his shirt down, exposing the pale flesh of his chest. Abbacchio smiled at him as he left, raising a hand in solidarity. Bruno lifted his mouth from the hickey he was creating next to Abbacchio’s left nipple and smiled as well.

Fugo waved weakly back, and tried to keep from grimacing. They were so open and public. They knew that he could see them. They knew that they all could see them, their two bodies slotted together, marked with spit and sweat, so obviously together.

As Fugo walked back down to the hallway, he wondered if he would ever feel as comfortable with another boy.

He knew it was irrational. He’d known he was gay since Before; that wasn’t the issue. It was just that this part of him knew it would have been different if He hadn’t done what He’d done, that some part of him wouldn’t be fucked up in the way he was, that maybe he would have had a chance at being normal.

He shook his head, shooting down the idea. He was a fuckup through and through, and He had only exacerbated it. No matter what had or hadn’t happened to him, Pannacotta Fugo was a disaster of royal proportions, and he deserved to rot in hell for eternity. The rest of it was just icing on the cake.

He was about to step into the bathroom when he felt a hand at his shoulder. He whipped around, ready to whisper angrily at Giorno, but instead he was met with Narancia’s downcast face.

“Hey,” he said, brow furrowing. “I, uh…”

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Narancia said. “I…I just, I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” asked Fugo.

“I’ve been kinda mean,” Narancia said. “Like, I need to just forgive and forget, or whatever.”

“No, you don’t!” Fugo said more forcefully than he meant to. “I mean, I just…You don’t need to forgive me.”

Narancia blinked at him, eyes wide. He had long lashes, longer than Giorno’s even, and they curled delicately. Fugo remembered the way they felt fluttering against his skin.

“Fugo, I’m sorry,” Narancia said slowly. “For how I hurt you.”

“I hurt you,” Fugo said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I couldn’t be what you needed me to be,” said Narancia.

“But that’s not a bad thing,” Fugo said, clenching his hands into fists. “It’s because you’re a good…you’re good Narancia, you deserve better.”

Better. Better than what? Than this? Than me?

“Fugo, I, well, I still care about you. I know it’s kind of weird, but I really, really do. I just don’t want…” His face crumpled, and it looked like he was about to cry. Fugo shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Look, I just want things to be normal. Like, as normal as they can be, I guess. At first I was really angry when Mista started bringing you along, but I think I get it now.”

Fugo closed his eyes. This wasn’t happening, this wasn’t happening, this wasn’t happening.

“Fugo, I just want you to know that I…” Narancia trailed off. “I wish I could love you the way you want to be loved.”

“I don’t think I should be loved the way I want to be loved,” Fugo said. “I don’t think I deserve it.”

The good, the bad, the ugly. He didn’t deserve Giorno smashing his hand in the car door, the tenderness of meals shared over a space heater bought with his first paycheck. He didn’t deserve the purple hickies or the way it felt when Giorno swallowed him whole.

“But you do!” Narancia protested. “You deserve to be happy.”

I don’t think being loved the way I want to be loved and being happy are quite the same thing.

“Do I?” Fugo said. “Like, I know that I’m supposed to, but I just…it doesn’t really feel like it applies to me all that much.”

“Fugo,” Narancia said, his voice small. “I need to move on. I need you to move on. Both of us need to move on.”

I have moved on.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” Narancia asked.

“Okay,” he said with as much finality as he could muster, but even as Narancia walked down the hall, he felt anything but.

 

Notes:

sorry for the delay! this week has been insane, and school is fucking killing me. ap gov is literally going to be the death of me. anyway, i banged this out pretty quick, so forgive any errors. as usual, @themadamepsychosis helped me out a ton, specifically with the mains for smash of the characters. this is such a fun fucking project, and i'm literally having so much fun with it, but it's nearing its end which is kind of crazy. still, it'll be so fun to get to work on something different. i have like 4 jjba fics lined up, as well as some hxh and more bnha (bakudabi 0w0) anyway, here's to hoping I find motivation to write any of them. i've also got my own original project that i'm working on, and hopefully i'll hear back from the agent soon about my stupid other novel that i've been working on for over two years. anyway, love you guys!

come say hi to me on twitter, and we can chat about jojo or anything! my handle is @toothfaerie69 and i'm only following like eight people, so let's make that number go up

anyway, sparkle emoji, sparkle emoji, your comments give me life and all that, thanks for reading it means the world.

Chapter 14: Lime St.

Summary:

The Gang Watches A Children's Movie

Notes:

lime st. by neck deep

tw for more food stuff and suicidal ideation/and just general focus on suicide. Also lots of self hatred, mentions of dictators, and aggressive atheism.

welcome to chapter fourteen! as you probably do not know, fourteen is my favorite number, and it's very good luck, so feel fortuitous this fine evening as you read ahead. Gentle reminder that the honeymoon period is over, and that all of the characters are teenagers. Yeah they have deep conversations and hot sex, but they also have emotional issues and Class A trauma.

The story begins to wind down with the chapter, and I'm sorry to let it go, but, BUT, I have new projects worth checking out (take a look at control the narrative if you aren't easily triggered, and please read the tags and warnings before you dive into it) but this is probably one of my favorite projects to date, and sharing it with you all has been a dream.

Hope you enjoy *sparkle emoji*

(i can't really do this part on my phone so you just have to imagine the emojI)
(or I could google it. But this is faster, and in my opinion, much funnier)

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

Chapter Text

Narancia’s words haunted him the rest of the night.

You need to move on.

He had, hadn’t he? Him and Giorno…

Narancia brought the food upstairs, and the boys dove into it like sharks, a mad frenzy of paper plates and plastic forks.

Giorno was the only one who used chopsticks, and he poked at Fugo with them, jabbing him neatly in the ribs.

Alongside his own plate, Giorno had assembled one for Fugo, and he was almost surprised when Giorno didn’t include any of the shrimp.

He picked at with his own fork, moving more of the food around on the plate than actually putting it in his mouth.

Everyone else was inhaling the food like it was going to disappear, and with the rate they were consuming it at, it really was.

Fugo didn’t really understand how they could all still be hungry even after all of the snack food. Between the Oreos and the Red Vines, he didn’t think he’d need to eat for another couple of days.  

Giorno noticed his lack of enthusiasm and elbowed him.

“You should eat that,” he said, voice low enough so only Fugo could hear. “It’s free and it’s good.”

The good was an afterthought to Giorno, and Fugo as well. He didn’t think he could tell the objective difference between cafeteria food and the takeout.

Fugo shoved a forkful into his mouth and smiled around the food. Giorno kept staring at him until he’d chewed and swallowed the entire bite.

“Again,” he commanded. “You need to eat, or you’ll die.”

Fugo rolled his eyes but continued. It was a special kind of hell forcing food into his mouth and swallowing it, but when he made it through three-quarters of the plate, Giorno didn’t make him eat any more.

The rest of the food had been finished off by that point, and Mista and Narancia were arguing over what Movie they should watch. Abbacchio was helping by suggesting things that weren’t on Netflix, and every time something he’d said popped up in the search bar, Mista was sure it had to be on there, and every time he was sorely disappointed.

“Why don’t we watch Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2,” said Bruno. “It’s a classic.”

“Sure,” Giorno said. “Fugo?”

“I don’t care,” said Fugo. He couldn’t remember the last time he watched a movie.

“I’m down,” Narancia said. “And it’s definitely on Netflix.”

“You can never be sure,” said Mista, shaking his head. “Nothing ever seems to be.”

It was, in fact, on Netflix, and the movie opened with CGI glory.

Giorno seemed transfixed by the screen but Fugo was more preoccupied with his earlier conversation.

Narancia had told him to move on, that he deserved better. The former he could agree with; the latter was more difficult for him to swallow.

Once they’d broken up, it’d tainted every previous interaction. Every conversation, whether it ended in an argument or not was shone in a sickly yellow light, tinged with the malaise that followed him wherever he went. Narancia had brought up a lot of things to Fugo then that he’d never mentioned before, frustrations and complaints Fugo couldn’t have possibly known about.

He struggled with a low EQ, that was for sure. He knew he wasn’t a sociopath, (he couldn’t stand physical comedy, it made him feel ill) but sometimes he felt like he bordered the line, like maybe he was so good at being an apathetic monster he was hiding it even from himself.

What Narancia had said that night hurt, and it hit Fugo like a semi-truck when he realized that same feeling he was drowning in was something he’d put Narancia through on a regular basis.

How could Narancia sit there and ask him to move on? When he was one who told Fugo how irreparably fucked he was, that no matter how hard he tried, he’d never get better.

The worst part was how little Narancia knew about his past, other than bits and fragments he let slip and quickly covered up, he didn’t know anything about Him or what He had done, or what Fugo had done to Him.

Narancia looked at Fugo and saw him for who he was, a fuckup at his core. It didn’t matter what had happened to him, Fugo was a lost cause, a monster, a selfish beast that destroyed everything around him.

He felt a lump climb up the back of his throat, and his chin trembled. He bit his bottom lip to keep from crying.

The rest of the boys were too enraptured in the glory of the shit movie to notice anything was wrong, and that alone comforted Fugo. He didn’t need them wasting their sympathy and pity on him, didn’t need anyone to try and console him. He deserved to feel this way, even if they didn’t know it.

Well, Giorno knew it. Giorno hadn’t hurt him just because he liked to hurt people, he hurt him because he’d looked at Fugo and just known instinctively that Fugo deserved it.

Narancia, sweet Narancia, was too nice, too caring. He was the kind of kid who cried at the ends of movies and saved the brown M&Ms for last because they were “chocolate flavored”. Narancia had seen him and tried to redeem him, tried to help him fight and claw back to the surface. But it didn’t matter. It never mattered. Nothing and no one could save Fugo from who he was at his core.

He was born a monster and he would die one. It just hadn’t occurred to him in a while that he could expedite that date.

Giorno reached over and clenched his wrist in a death grip.

“You have that look,” he whispered into Fugo’s ear. “Do you need to go?”

“I’m fine,” Fugo lied.

Giorno didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t loosen his grasp on Fugo’s arm, either.

Now that he was tethered to something, he felt the need to watch what he thought, as if the connection point between the two of them would somehow allow Giorno a peephole into his mind.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Maybe if he thought it enough, it would transmute into something breathable, and fill the air of the room without Fugo having to say a word.

At a midway point, when the camera panned out to show the brilliant expanse of “foodimals”, Giorno tugged his arm and pulled him up.

Giorno dragged him out the door and down the hall. He didn’t stop until they were locked inside of the bathroom.

Fugo looked at everything except for him. The curtains were blowing lightly, the window still open a crack. The seat was up, and there was no toilet paper left on the roll. The shower curtain was pushed back, revealing the contents of the stained tub.

“Fugo,” said Giorno in a serious whisper. “You’re not okay.”

Giorno was right, but it still irritated Fugo to be told how he felt.

“Fuck you,” he said.

“Fugo,” Giorno said again. “What’s wrong?”

Fugo thought he would set his jaw and stay silent, stare at Giorno with a steely glare.

Instead he started crying, his heart palpitating, and snot running out of his nose.

“Narancia told me to move on,” he said. “He’s trying to…trying to forgive me.”

Fugo choked on the last two words. Giorno appraised him with a cocked eyebrow.

“So, what did you say?” Giorno asked, his face calm and unreadable.

“I—” Fugo tried, but he couldn’t remember. All he could see in his mind’s eye was Narancia’s face, his dark eyes downcast, pants slung low on his hips. “I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s over now,” said Giorno. “So, you should move on.”

“Move on?” Fugo cried. “That was six months of my life! He was the only reason I didn’t kill myself!”

“So why didn’t you kill yourself after you broke up?” asked Giorno. “Why don’t you kill yourself now?”

“You can’t ask people that!” His eyes burned with salty tears. Fugo had very little tact, but even he knew Giorno was crossing the line. “It’s none—”

“It’s plenty my business.” Giorno grabbed him by the chin and forced him into meeting his gaze. “Why haven’t you just killed yourself, Fugo?”

A beat. Then another.

All he could hear was traffic outside and the thin gurgle of water settling in the toilet.

“Because I don’t deserve it,” he said finally, voice small. “That would be too easy.”

Giorno laughed, a rough bark that slapped Fugo across the face.

“You really think that?” he asked, sneering. “You really think you’re too good to fucking die?”

“That’s not it!” Fugo tried to break free from Giorno’s grip, his hand was too strong. “I…I’m not good enough to die.”

“That makes more sense,” said Giorno, in a way that suggested he’d known from the start. “So, consider this: do I deserve to die?”

Fugo blanched. Did he?

Fugo was fairly liberal with hatred. He hated his parents, his brothers, he hated his teachers and his peers. He hated Him, obviously, but not in the visceral way he used to. Now it was a dull ache of resentment that settled in his stomach when he got too close to feeling good. But hate. There was one person he hated, wholly, completely, violently.

And that person stood before him, slender fingers wrapped around his jaw.

“I—” Fugo tried to muster some sense of authority, but his extremities were heavy and weighed him down. “I don’t know.”

Giorno was not pleased.

“That’s not a fucking answer,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s a yes or no question. Do. I. Deserve. To. Die?”

The answer was clear. It was obvious. There was a correct choice, and then there was the right choice.

He knew what he was supposed to say, to feed into this fantasy they created, to keep the perfect little bubble of their relationship in harmony.

But he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“No,” he said finally.

“No what?” asked Giorno, gripping tighter. “No, what, Fugo?”

“No, you don’t deserve to die,” he said feebly. “Not any more than I do.”

“Are you saying that because you think it’ll make me happy?” Giorno asked. “Or do you think I’m not deserving of death, either.”

“It’s not that!” pleaded Fugo, and it really wasn’t. “It’s just…I don’t think you deserve to die, not because you’re not good enough, but because you’re too good.”

“How am I good, Fugo?” Giorno asked. “How can you say that, and have me believe that you’re telling the truth?”

“Good…” started Fugo. “There is no good, there is no evil. There are just people who make choices. And you’ve made bad choices, a lot of them. A lot, a lot, a lot of them. But it’s not your fault!”

“So, I’m absolved of all my guilt cause I’m abused,” Giorno said with a snort. “How’s that gonna hold up at the pearly gates?”

“Heaven isn’t real, Giorno, you should know that,” Fugo said.

“Of course, I know that, dipshit, I’m not fucking Narancia. There’s no happily ever after in this life or the next. We all die and rot underground and nothing ever comes of it. Gandhi and Hitler are in the same place now, and that’s six feet underground rotting into skeletons.”

“Gandhi was actually pretty racist,” Fugo said, and Giorno let go of his face in surprise.

“Wha—Y’know what? Great, fuck Gandhi, fuck Mother Theresa, fuck everyone who’s ever been good because guess fucking what? There is no good! There are no good or bad people, there are just people and we’re all fuckups!”

Fugo opened his mouth and closed it again, but that only seemed to irritate Giorno more.

“You’re not fucking special, Fugo,” said Giorno bitterly. “You’re not worse than Hitler, or Stalin, or any of those other fucks who killed millions of people. You said so yourself, you haven’t even killed one person—”

“Not for lack of trying,” Fugo laughed numbly, and Giorno grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Do you fucking hear yourself? Do you hear how insane you seem? Oh, my name is Pannacotta Fugo, and I’m the world’s worst person.”

“Don’t call me that,” Fugo said, voice low. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” Giorno snarled. “Why are you so fucking uppity about it, anyway?”

“Because He was the only one who ever called me that!” Fugo shouted.

“Who the fuck is ‘he’?” Giorno asked, shaking him.

“The guy who raped me, Giorno,” Fugo kept his voice level, his brows a flat line on his forehead. “I thought you knew that.”

“I did,” Giorno said. “But look at you, baby’s first milestone.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Fugo was seething. If this were a cartoon, steam would be curling out of his ears.

“You haven’t said it in so many words,” Giorno said.

“Yes, I have!” Fugo was this close to stomping his foot on the ground like a toddler. “I swear I have!”

“No—” Giorno started but was cut off by loud banging on the bathroom door.

“I don’t know what you’re so upset about, but if you’re going to have an argument, it isn’t going to be in my house!” Narancia’s dad’s voice bellowed from the hall.

“Sorry, Mr. Ghirga,” said Giorno cheerfully. Fugo blinked to make sure the voice had come from him. “So sorry about the noise!”

Despite the airy way his words had sounded, Giorno’s face was as curled in disgust as it had been before. There was nothing to suggest a change in his mood, for the better or the worse.

“Look,” Giorno whispered it, low and gravelly. “One of these days, I’m going to fuck you so hard you don’t even remember what happened to you.”

In that moment, all Fugo felt was fear. There was no humor in Giorno’s eyes, no sign that this was some joke, as cruel a joke as it may be. There was something dangerous, very dangerous, about the way he studied Fugo, not dissimilar to how a butcher may examine a cut of meat.

And in an instant, it was gone.

“Just kidding,” said Giorno. “But seriously, I’m gonna help you get over this no matter what.”

Fugo’s blood was still ice in his veins. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to see.

#

Giorno drove him and Mista home. After he dropped Mista off, he drove to Fugo’s and idled the car.

“I have to go home now,” he said. “Hopefully I’ll be in school tomorrow.”

“Text me,” Fugo said coolly.

“Later,” Giorno said and peeled off.

His hands were shaking when he pressed the key into the lock, trembling as he twisted his wrist right and then left to get the door open.

He couldn’t feel anything as he fell through the doorway, shucking off his shoes and emptying his pockets. He collapsed into his bed and pressed his eyes shut.

He needed a shower. He had showered the day before after Giorno had cut his hair, but he felt like he was a lifetime away. It had been twenty-four hours, and already the memory was sinking into long term storage, images hazy and distant when he reached for them in his mind.

Instead, he ran his hand over his newly shorn head and tried to plant himself firmly back in his body.

If he’d thought he was reeling before, he was positively spinning out now, his thoughts an unorganized herd of wild beasts trampling over everything delicate and important.

Between Narancia’s attempted apology, Giorno’s comment, and the missing school work he’d all but forgotten about, Fugo could feel a wave of panic cresting in his chest, about to break.

His heart was beating too quickly for him to fall asleep, so he tried to calm himself with his times tables, something he hadn’t done since Before, back when he was a weird kid with social issues and nothing more, a nerd who learned how to multiply outside of class.

One times one is one, one times two is two, one times three is three…

There was order, there was consistency. The answers were concrete and unwavering. No matter how many times he multiplied four by two, he would always get eight.

He made it tens before he felt relaxed enough to sleep, and by elevens he could barely keep track of the numbers in his head. When he made it to twelve times three, he fell asleep before he could think of thirty-six.

Notes:

bit of a trip, huh. Hard to believe we've been in scene for like three straight chapters. anyway, my sister and I watched Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2 on new years, and it was horrible, but in a decent way. Not worth watching, but moderately entertaining.

Anyway, sorry Giorno fans (and this is coming from a Giorno fan, believe you me, I love him the second most (after fugo, obvs)) but this boy is still,, not good. ALthough we did sort of decide that good and bad people are fake, if they were real, Giorno would not be one of them.

I always say this, but trauma and mental illness are an explanation, not an excuse.
His issues explain why he does the things he does (hurt fugo, lash out, commit (sexy sexy) teenage crime) but it doesn't wish away the malintent or negative impact. In my opinion (as the omniscient god of this universe) fugo has been WAY too lenient with Giorno's fucked-up-ness (although honestly i'd do the same, finding a boy that sexy and that mean is really hard (literally the men on tinder all want one thing and it's to swipe left on me :P) anyway, it's time to start exploring how this relationship might actually NOT be what Fugo needs to recover.
I like to think I know where this story is going to end, but the how is a bit of a mystery. I do NOT recomend writing like this, btw, especially if you're doing original work. Luckily, fan fiction doesn't lend itself to editing or forethought, so i can play as fast and loose as I want, much to everyone's dismay.
HOLY SHIT THIS GOT LONG. No one probably read this far, but that's fine because I had a lot of run writing it.

n e way,, good night and try to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, the fan fic will still be here in the morning <3<3

Chapter 15: Fentanyl

Summary:

giorno and fugo have s*cks in a church parking lot

Notes:

Fentanyl by McCafferty

EXPLICIT & CW

DUB-CON
This chapter deals with explicit sex and aftermath of rape. Fugo isn't really into to it (until he is ( and then he isn't again (and then he is))) so proceed with caution.

On a less depressing note, there's some light bondage and some consensual BDSM (slapping, name calling) so ngl, this chapter is really sexy.

 

love <3<3
toothfaerie

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

Chapter Text

Friday evening after Truong’s Donuts closed, Giorno and Fugo were driving aimlessly through the street with the windows open and the music playing loud.

It had taken them ages to agree on anything; Fugo was strictly into punk and emo, and Giorno had a soft spot for pop and indie. They’d inevitably decided on Tiger’s Jaw, and the soft melancholic guitar would have been the perfect background to their evening, had they not been in the middle of a particularly nasty argument.

“Fuck you!” Fugo yelled, slamming his hands on the dashboard. “I swear to fucking god, you do this shit on purpose!”

Giorno was red faced, and his mouth was pressed into a firm line. His eyebrows were low over his eyes, and he seemed to be holding back a snarl.

The shit in question was unimportant. This was how they spent most of their rides, Fugo so angry he turned purple, hands in fists wailing on Giorno and the glove compartment, Giorno in a stony silence jaw clenched so hard Fugo could hear his teeth grinding.

They went at it like this for a while, always with screaming and cussing and hot, red anger from Fugo, and a chilly distance from Giorno.

And then Giorno would snap. He’d yank the wheel to the side of the road, and pull over, shoving the gear shift into park and smacking Fugo so hard across the face he still felt it sting even as they clambered over each other into the backseat.

It was warmer in the car, they’d found, than at Fugo’s, so it was easier for Giorno to dig his fingers into Fugo’s hips and thighs when they weren’t numb from cold.

This particular Friday, however, the mood seemed different.

There was an undercurrent of excitement in Giorno that Fugo had noticed, a gleam in his eye, a slight smirk. His hands ran up and down the steering wheel like he was massaging it, and he kept stealing glances when he thought Fugo wasn’t looking.

When he finally finished their routine and pulled into an empty church parking lot, he smiled real widely and said: “I think it’s about time.”

Fugo was pretty sure he blacked out for a minute because one second, he was sitting in the passenger seat of Giorno’s red Toyota with his nails digging into his palms, and the next, he was on his hands and knees in the back seat while Giorno fished around in his backpack.

He knew he should be excited. He knew that his cock should be hard, and his mouth should be filling with saliva, that there should be a deep burning pit in his stomach that threatened to burst.

But all he felt was fear.

This was what they had been coming to, was it not? What Giorno had been building towards all this time. This was the end all be all, the ultimate goal. This was real sex.

“Hey,” Giorno said, climbing into the back next to him. “Relax, it’s gonna be fun.”

Fun contrasted with the way his stomach rolled, flipping the donut he’d had for dinner over and over.

“I’m excited,” Fugo said, more than a little forced. “I want this.”

Maybe if he said it enough it would come true.

The warm up was nice, as it always was. Giorno laid under him, and he let Fugo do most of the touching, keeping his own hands on Fugo’s waist.

It was easy, sexy, normal.

Giorno sucked his dick, tonguing at the head with a relaxed sort of satisfaction, one hand running up and down the shaft, the other massaging the meat of Fugo’s ass.

Giorno’s mouth was warm and wet and delicious, a soft haven he could sink into. If he didn’t think of what was about to come, he could almost lose himself completely.

Giorno sucked at the top of his cock, scraping his teeth gently. Fugo’s toes curled, and he squeezed his eyes shut, but he didn’t tell him to stop. Fugo was leaning his back against the window, legs crossed, Giorno bent over him like he was praying.

“You like that?” Giorno asked, pulling his mouth away. “You like it when I’m rough?”

Fugo didn’t answer in words, but he didn’t have to. His hips bucked upward in an effort to sink back into the silken dream that was Giorno Giovanna.

When Giorno got back into it, gripping his balls and taking his cock as far into his mouth as he could, bumping against his throat, so tight and warm that Fugo had to pinch himself to keep from cumming, but that was the wrong choice, it only made it worse, and he burned red because he was sure he couldn’t have lasted more than three minutes before busting his load.

Giorno rolled the window down and spat, a couple hacks before he was satisfied. The cool air braised Fugo’s bared dick, and he cupped his hands over it.

“You’re excited tonight,” Giorno said. “I think you’re ready.”

“Maybe I should blow you first,” said Fugo quickly. “Maybe we should, uh, I dunno, you want me to eat your ass?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s my job,” Giorno said, laughing. “Come on, it’s gonna be really good, I promise. I’m gonna go nice and slow, and it’s not gonna hurt at all.”

But Fugo wasn’t worried about it hurting. He expected it to hurt, wanted it to. It wasn’t the sex that scared him, the penis in butthole, cock in ass, man meat in bussy, it was the power and control he was going to have to relinquish, the fear that he was going to sink back into the regressive space he’d only escaped from before with the help of an Encyclopedia Britannica.

The fear wasn’t what Giorno would do to him, but what he might do to Giorno. What if he snapped, saw red and purple again, beat him to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp? What would he do if he found himself staring at Giorno’s face, a hollow, broken shell of what it once was?

“Hey,” Giorno said, wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand. “Lie on your back, okay?”

“Can you…” Fugo trailed off, embarrassed. But it wasn’t worth it, he thought, to be embarrassed about a request like this, not with everything else they’d done. “Can you tie my hands up?”

Giorno looked at him with genuine shock.

“That…” he said. “Would be really fucking hot.”

He looked at Giorno, studying him.

“Let me get the bungee cords from the trunk,” he said, and popped the door open. Fugo’s hands clasped tighter around himself.

And so Giorno ran around to the trunk of the car in just his underwear in some church parking lot, rummaging around for something to restrain Fugo with.

He returned, slammed the door shut, and tossed the bungee cords between them. He rubbed his shoulders for a second and blew hot breath into his palms.

“Above your head?” asked Giorno. “Or in front of you?”

“I don’t care,” said Fugo. “Just make it so I can’t break free.”

“I knew you were kinky, but I didn’t think it was this bad,” Giorno said, licking his lips. “But bad might be the wrong word.”

Giorno’s hands were dexterous, and it wasn’t long before Fugo found his arms pulled above his head and thoroughly secured the handle above the door with an array of complicated knots.

“I was a boy scout, briefly,” Giorno said, tugging on one of the knots, as if to prove it would hold. “Got kicked out for ‘bad behavior’ though. They didn’t like it when I ran around the camp site in the middle of the night, screaming. They also didn’t like it when I came back to the meeting after they told my parents that I was ‘troubled’ with a limp, and they just kicked me out without having to spend money and resources trying to help me get better. Plus, I think the leader was a pedo, cause he was always a little too friendly.”

Giorno let out a breath. Excitement radiated off him, and Fugo tried to inhale as much of it as possible.  

“You ready?” Giorno asked, popping the cap of the bottle of lube he’d pulled out of his backpack. “I stole us some KY jelly, heard it’s better than Vaseline.”

Fugo nodded numbly. Objective thoughts ran through his head: they were using a water-based lube, Giorno seemed prepared to adequately prepare him, there was the silver foil of a condom peeking out the waistband of Giorno’s underwear, it was safe, sane, and consensual.

They were doing everything right.

So why did Fugo feel so wrong?

Giorno stuck his first two fingers in his mouth with bravado, sucking on them so his lips curled into a perfect little ‘O’ around them. He then squirted some of the lube onto his fingers, and some more on Fugo. Well, Fugo’s general direction. Giorno really just squirted the lube onto the seat of the car.

“Whoops,” he said, laughing. “Let me just…”

He scooped it up with his fingers and slid it down Fugo’s taint. He shivered at the cold, both Giorno’s fingers and the viscous liquid itself.

Giorno rubbed a gentle circle around his asshole, before plunging his forefinger in.

He didn’t make it past the first knuckle.

“Fugo, you gotta unclench,” he said. “You are way too tight for me to get anything in there.”

“Sorry,” Fugo said. “It just, well…”

“You’ve shoved shit up there before, yeah?” Giorno asked. “Oh my god, you haven’t put anything up your ass since, uh, since then.”

Fugo nodded numbly. He’d been too scared. He’d tried his fingers a couple of times, but he couldn’t find a good angle, and he’d always met too much resistance.

“God, you’re gonna be tight,” said Giorno a little dreamily. “Anyway, do some deep breathing or some shit. Seriously, you gotta loosen up, or this isn’t going to work.”

Fugo pressed his eyes closed and tried to steady his breathing. He was too wired to focus on counting or numbers, so he mostly just tried to listen to the beating of his heart and ignore Giorno’s finger prodding his asshole.

“Hey,” Giorno said, voice soft. He brought his free hand to Fugo’s chest and placed it over his heart. “Just breathe, okay?”

Giorno pressed a delicate kiss to Fugo’s sternum, and despite the still rapid pace of his heart, he relaxed enough for Giorno to get his entire index finger inside.

“That wasn’t so bad,” whispered Giorno. “Just keep breathing.”

So breathe he did, lungful after lungful of oxygen pushing his stomach out, expulsion of CO2 sucking it back in, flush with his ribs and pubic bones. Giorno got another finger in, and began moving them slowly, with just a little too much friction.

“More lube,” Fugo whispered. “Please.”

“Oh yeah,” said Giorno. “Never too much lube.”

He took his hand from Fugo’s chest and fished for the bottle. He squeezed more onto Fugo’s ass, pulling his fingers out just enough to slide them back in, newly slicked.

A couple more pumps, and he started scissoring his fingers, trying to open Fugo deeper. It hurt, not much, but an unpleasant ache in the lower half of his body he couldn’t ignore.

“Hey,” Giorno said. “You’re tensing up on me.”

“Sorry,” said Fugo. “Just, it feels weird.”

“If you let me keep going,” Giorno said. “I can make it feel good.”

Fugo released a deep breath and clenched his hands into fists. There was something about the powerlessness that made him feel good, not in control, but comfortable, like he couldn’t do anything to hurt anyone ever again.

Slowly but surely, the pain melted away into something else, a pressure that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Giorno added a third finger and curled them experimentally. They rubbed against something (the prostate, he knew it was the prostate) and felt a hot wave of pleasure burst in his chest.

“Fuck,” he moaned, and Giorno smirked.

“You like that?” Giorno asked, curling his fingers and ramming them into the same spot.

“Fuck,” Fugo said again, because it seemed to be the only word he knew.

A couple more thrusts, and Fugo felt like he was at the precipice of a very steep cliff, a nudge away from falling off the edge.

And then Giorno pulled his fingers out, and Fugo couldn’t help but moan at the sudden emptiness.

“You’re gonna like this better, I promise,” Giorno said with a grin. “Let me just…”

He slid his underwear down his thighs and tossed it to the floor. He gripped the bottle of lube and poured some directly onto his cock. The head was already red, and precum dotted the tip, dripping onto the seat of his car.

“You should get this car washed after this,” said Fugo. “We’re getting sex juices everywhere.”

“Yeah, there’s probably a lot of cum already embedded in these seats, not gonna lie,” Giorno said, and Fugo recoiled. “What, you’re not the first guy I’ve fucked in this car. Well, you’re the first guy I’ve fucked, but you’re definitely not the first guy to have sex with me in here.”

Fugo blinked. He’d known it was true in theory; Giorno Giovanna was kind of a slut, but to think there was some other guys crusty ass cum on the seat beneath him made something crawl up the back of his throat.

“Look, I’ve definitely cleaned up since the last time I had anyone in here,” Giorno said. “But car washes are kind of expensive, so I mostly just use Lysol wipes.”

Fugo felt remarkably ill, but he kept his expression neutral.

“Look, do I get to fuck you, or not?” Giorno asked impatiently. “Fuck, just seeing you there, your hands tied up like that.”

Giorno bit his bottom lip, and it had no business being as sexy as it was. Fugo’s own face mirrored him subconsciously, and he felt the drag of his own teeth against his lip.

Giorno guided his cock up to Fugo’s entrance, squirting a little more lube onto his asshole. The two boys sat for a second with bated breath before Giorno pushed into him.

It took a minute for him to comprehend what was happening. He hadn’t immediately devolved into a panic attack, but he felt less present than he had the moment before. Giorno pushed slowly, sensually, into him, but it didn’t feel like anything more than pressure until he bottomed out.

The tip of his cock rubbed against Fugo’s prostate (what an underrated organ! How had he lived so long without appreciating it?) and when Giorno pulled back to slam into him again, he seemed to hit Fugo squarely without any mercy.

Not every stroke sent sparks crawling through him like the first two had, but enough of them felt like a pure white heat that he closed his eyes and let go.

Giorno’s hands dug into him, pinching his nipples, squeezing his ribs, Giorno’s teeth nipping at his neck and jaw, there were all of these contact points that Fugo could feel so distinctly. Giorno’s cock in his ass would have been distracting enough, a solid weight that filled like helium to a balloon, sending him bounding weightless up, up, up, but his clever fingers, and his clever tongue, and his blonde hair tickling Fugo’s skin was enough to set every nerve in his body on fire, each pinprick its own distinct flame.

He felt everything at once, closing his eyes and letting pleasure roll over him. He hadn’t expected sex to feel so good, not when it was his first time, not with Giorno. Even the pain, which was miniscule, didn’t feel like pain, but the same hot pleasure as everything else. This was different from that time he’d been seated in the shower, flexing his broken arm and stroking his cock, this pain was good in all the ways that hadn’t been, soft and warm and surprisingly fuzzy.

He hadn’t noticed, but Giorno was whispering things to him, profanities and praise and unintelligible moans, his voice soft against Fugo’s ear. His breath was warm, the car was warm, his cock was warm, everything in him was so profoundly content.

“Can I hit you?” Giorno whispered, fully sheathed inside Fugo, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “Like, just a slap.”

“Yeah,” Fugo said a little breathlessly.

Giorno timed it so his cock rammed into Fugo’s prostate at the same time his palm made contact with the flesh of his cheek, and Fugo moaned loud.

“Giorno!” The word spilled out of his mouth with such frenzied lust Giorno himself stopped mid-thrust.

“Holy shit,” Giorno said, voice gravelly. “Say my name again, slut.”

“Hit me again,” said Fugo. “And I’ll do whatever you want.”

So Giorno hit him again, and Fugo said his name like he would that of God, something so precious and special he tasted it the entire way along his tongue.

The pain didn’t hurt, not the way it usually did. It didn’t feel like hurt, it felt like magic, like someone had plugged him into an electrical outlet, and his whole body was wired with pure unadulterated bliss.

“Fuck I think I’m gonna—” Giorno buried himself deep into Fugo, their hips clapping together. “Fuck…”

Hot cum filled Fugo in spurts, and it was only then he realized.

“You forgot a fucking condom!” Fugo cried. “You just came in my ass!”

“Fuck,” Giorno said, this time with disappointment and not arousal. “Shit, I really didn’t mean to. I’m clean, I promise though.”

“Agh!” Fugo yelled, shoving Giorno off him. “There’s cum in my ass!”

“Don’t be a baby,” said Giorno. “We’ll go back home and shower.”

Home.

“I mean, we’ll go back to your place,” Giorno corrected quickly. “It’s not a big deal, I’ve done it a thousand times. I kinda like it, actually.”

“It’s gross,” said Fugo. “And it’s starting to drip out.”

“Shit,” Giorno said. “I guess I normally lay a towel down, but I guess I forgot.”

Fugo tugged at his constraints. “And will you let me out?”

“You haven’t even cum yet!” Giorno said indignantly. “At least let me help you finish—”

“I just want to go home,” Fugo said, the high fading.

“Let me just…” Giorno took his cock and stroked it. Fugo couldn’t help but keen. “You’re so close, and you’ll feel so much better.”

He rubbed his thumb over the head, and Fugo let out a low moan. He continued to stroke, his pretty hands curled around his shaft, sliding up and down with the slickness left over from the earlier lube.

He pressed his mouth to Fugo’s, and bit at his bottom lip. Fugo’s hips thrust involuntarily into Giorno’s hand, and Fugo could feel him smile.

He brought his mouth to Fugo’s neck and sucked a big hickey while he stroked him. It was only another minute or two before Fugo gasped, cum drooling out of his cock and splattering Giorno’s hand.

“Hickey’s not really done,” said Giorno, pulling his hand away. “But we can finish it later.”

Hu used his clean hand to grab a napkin stuffed into the cupholder and wiped away the cum.

“Thank you,” Fugo said quietly, hoping he wouldn’t hear.

“Of course.” No such luck.

They dressed slowly, Giorno buttoning his shirt with care, Fugo trying not to think about the cum running down his ass under his underwear.

The music had switched over by the time the pulled out of the parking lot, sliding into Fugo’s McCafferty, but Giorno didn’t seem to notice.

Nick Hartkop crooned about opiates and broken dreams, fears of being forgotten, and Fugo tried to get back to that place he’d been just before Giorno had came.

The car stopped in front of Fugo’s the tires riding up the curb, and Giorno shut off the ignition.

“Can we go inside?” Fugo asked. “I really need to clean up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Giorno said distractedly. “Totally.”

They had finally fucked, and Fugo really didn’t know where that left them.

Notes:

that was a BLAST! one of my favorite chapters so far. @themadamepsychosis said it's her favorite, and I'm pretty inclined to agree. definitely more sexy and less angsty, and it honestly make me want to write way more smut.

Comment any pairs/dynamics/reqs you might have and I'll see if I can get some one shots in (:

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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