Work Text:
January 1st, 2006
Fugo wakes up in a room he doesn't recognize. Obviously, this is not good.
His head splits as though he survived a 20 story fall. He forces himself to sit up, goes blind for a solid thirty seconds, puts his glasses on (how he knew they were on the small bedside table next to him is far beyond him), and glances around, trying to get his bearings.
The room is not so much “decorated” as it is overgrown. Willow and thorny vines- roses in dark crimson, haggard and curling- throw themselves against the walls, choking out any color from underneath and sticking their little green hands into every opening afforded to them. Well tended, it might have a sort of rugged charm, but whichever prisoner lives in here has left the plants to consume all they can in search of sweet sunlight. They crawl towards the window, but they cannot jump out. They have too much to do tomorrow.
The door to the balcony is unblocked. What lays beyond it? Fugo can’t see from here. The plants have jammed themselves under it so that it no longer closes-- it simply hangs open, a possibility, ever lurking in the back of a tormented mind.
The furnishings look gaudy and out of place in such a barren room. There’s clearly been some attempt to restore the honor they must have had once- gold paint has been laid on thickly over chipping wood- but it just looks sad. Vines have yet to consume the furniture that actually gets use-- in short, only the worn-down bed. The clock has stopped at a distant eleventh hour. Plants curl around the legs of the bedpost coyly, as if threatening to drag it and its occupants away by peeling gold paint on wooden legs and thrust it, tumbling, out into the dark, cold nothingness.
That isn't to mention… the bugs. Fugo shudders.
At least they aren't vermin. Fugo can't imagine what he would do if he woke up in a room swarming with cockroaches.
He can't recall anything. (Past the location of his glasses, apparently.) For some reason, yesterday’s clothes are strewn about the room. That is, he has to assume that those are the clothes he wore yesterday, since they look almost like something he might wear, though he is not, at present, wearing them. He checks under the blanket. Any of them.
They could be the owner’s clothes too, he supposes. It doesn't look like he cares too much for the neatness of his surroundings.
Fugo adjusts his glasses. He has a pretty good idea of who he accidentally slept with… and if it is him (he doesn't really want to confirm), he'd rather not be caught here. He plays with the idea of collecting his clothes and leaving.
He doesn't move.
It's probably the bugs. Maybe he has a subconscious fear that they'll swarm him if he tries to escape without at very least saying hello to his bedmate. Which is ridiculous. Bugs don't care if you're a bad person.
One particular fly runs its head into the wall again and again. Thud. Thud. Thud. Fugo still doesn't move. The fly falls to the ground, twitching, and writhes in pain.
Do flies feel pain, actually?
He could ask, but… the only person that might know may or may not be at his side, and if he is… it doesn’t matter. Fugo gets the feeling that this fly does.
The ache in his head has waned a little, and some memories wander back. Last night. New Year's Eve. There was a party. It would be useful information if Fugo hadn't figured all of that out ages ago.
He squeezes his eyes shut, and tries harder.
---
December 31st, 2005
“Fugo.”
Fugo hums in acknowledgment.
“I’m going to kiss you when the clock strikes twelve.”
Fugo hums again. His eyes flick between his terrible hand and the river. There's probably a chance things will get better, but he isn't the sort of person who enjoys gambling on chance. He looks up, and Giorno- they made him be the dealer, because he kept winning- offers his usual practiced smile. He tilts his head. His curls tumble over his shoulders, giggling, teasing, as if they know Fugo just can’t resist their master’s charms. Too bad he’s not dumb enough to think Giorno is being serious.
Fugo raises his eyebrows.
“Is that supposed to be a bluff?”
“Maybe. You're still going to fold, aren't you?”
Fugo looks back at his hand. How is it even possible to get such trash cards? Not even a pair? Not even two face cards? He is going to fold… but it’s not as though he has any other choice.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Completely,” Mista butts in. “It's no fun playing with you, man. You've got no poker face.”
“It's not like I'm trying to win--”
“Awwwww. Spoken like a true sore loser,” Trish trills.
Fugo huffs and throws his cards down as the others laugh. Outside, tons of capos and soldatos mingle, but in this small room, it's just him and the few friends he has left. He wasn't always the worst at poker. He just can’t- can’t- hide how he feels. Not around him. If only it wasn’t such a joke to everyone.
“Aw, Fugo. I'm sure your luck will turn around eventually,” Giorno says, still chuckling.
“Ha. Probably not.”
Fugo gets up from the table.
“Don't wait for me. I'm going to go get something to drink.”
---
Another capo passes, spouting adoration for their gracious Don and for this lovely party. It seems like they’ve all gotten together and made sure none of them gave the same compliment-- it would be less awkward if it didn’t mean the capos ended up saying some very odd things. One of them had gone on a tirade about how the color of the plates meant a lot to him. How Giorno managed to nod and smile through that excruciating drivel was a mystery.
“I don't know what I'm going to do with all these gifts.”
“It’s only natural,” Fugo says. He sips his wine. “You're quite a popular man, Giogio.”
Giorno’s smile seems to falter a little.
“Yes… I know.”
Something about seeing his boss’s face fall, even if only slightly, inspires an impulsive bravery. Fugo sets his drink down and extends a hand to Giorno. Giorno looks down at it, and then back up at him. He points at himself, bewildered.
“You want to do something else, don't you? And no one will bother you.”
“Fugo…”
It might be the first time Fugo has heard any hesitation in his voice.
“I-I’m really honored, but I don't… know how.”
“That doesn't matter. In partner dance, your partner is your guide.”
He pulls Giorno to his feet. Giorno allows himself to be maneuvered- his hand clenching Fugo’s shoulder, and Fugo’s on his waist- still uncertain, but with a trust in Fugo’s competence that makes Fugo’s chest swell. I won’t let you down, Giogio.
“Don’t worry. If you feel like you're falling behind, let me take the lead. I'm sure you'll get the hang of it in no time.”
Giorno’s eyes glitter with an emotion Fugo has no name for. Unable to speak, he nods.
---
It's barely ten, yet Giorno is completely drunk.
It's unlike him. He'd told Fugo once before that he preferred to stay alert at all times… but clearly, something had changed. Mista sets water in front of him, nervously joking- I think you’ve had a bit much, man- and Giorno laughs loudly, downs it all, and flops right back onto Fugo’s shoulder.
Not that Fugo has any right to lecture him. He's half drunk himself.
If he’d thought Giorno was touchy before, it’s no comparison to how he is when there’s no functioning inhibitor in his brain. It's a good thing it's just him and his friends- the entirety of Passione watching their boss roll around, giggling, in a bodyguard’s lap would be no good. He kisses Fugo's face for the eleventh time. Fugo has long since stopped pushing him away.
You're warm, he says, shivering. So warm. He presses his cold nose to Fugo’s neck. Maybe it’s a kiss. Maybe it isn’t.
I’m sorry.
For what?
For everything. It’s too quiet for anyone else to hear. Do you still love me?
Fugo takes the last sip of his wine, and leans back, blinking at the ceiling as though it might sharpen his mind. He can’t remember what he replied.
---
Giorno has recovered… for the most part. He’s still retained that apathetic cheerfulness that being drunk gives him, but his wobbling is minimal. At this point it seems like he just wants Fugo to share half his weight. He hums.
It’s a bit chilly outside. The stars gleam above, pinpricks in a jar with blue and black plastic wrap on top. Maybe we’re just bugs, Fugo says. Two little bugs in God’s terrarium. Giorno smiles faintly and puts his hand on top of Fugo’s. Distant music wafts from a warmer place, but of course, Giorno has no interest in that-- only in Fugo’s body temperature.
“Why wait for twelve? I’ll kiss you now.”
Fugo taps his fingers against the railing. It was probably a song in his head at the time, but now it’s only dry, vaguely rhythmic bones. “Alright, but what’s the point in that?”
“I don’t know. Does there have to be one?”
What is the point in New Year’s kisses? Is it to hail in the new year? Say goodbye to the old one? Symbolize the beginning of something new? It always seemed like people just found the least abhorrent someone to put their lips against, just because. Who was the first to come up with it? Was it to be wanted? To feel less alone?
Heck, why does anyone kiss anyone, ever?
“It was just a joke, Fugo.”
Giorno sighs and unsticks himself from Fugo for the first time in two hours. It feels strange. Fugo instinctively reaches for him-- after all, it’s cold. Giorno smiles. Like the breeze, he slips through his hands.
Giorno climbs onto the railing, and then over it. The brick outside the railing is barely big enough to fit him. He clings to the railing with one, half tossed hand.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s a nice view! Come on, come look.”
Fugo obeys, if only to make sure the idiot doesn’t fall. His hand presses against Giorno’s. The view really is something-- even if that something is only tantalizingly dangerous. Giorno kicks a foot out, laughing, and Fugo hooks his arms under Giorno’s armpits and yanks him back to safety. Giorno finds this even funnier. They both sit on their knees on the rough, brick ground, and Fugo can’t help but imagine- in agonizing detail- what it might feel like to land from 20 stories up.
“Seriously! Are you crazy? You could have fallen!”
“Wouldn’t that be something?”
“What the hell are you even saying?!”
Giorno doesn’t answer. His eyes sparkle with something Fugo can’t find a good word for. Something… something like the ecstasy of a nebula-- which doesn’t make sense, but none of this does. A star explodes into pink clouds, yellow post-it notes, and a white sheet of paper, saying, good-bye, good-bye. Until next time.
There won’t be a next time, will there?
“Sorry,” Giorno says. “It was just a joke. I didn’t think you’d cry.”
“Why wouldn’t I?!”
Giorno has no interest in answering that. Fugo’s shoulders slump. He shakes his head, wiping the tears from his eyes, and opens his arms.
“Just come back here. I’m cold.”
Giorno nods. The iron railing presses into Fugo’s back as Giorno slips back into his arms. He’s cold, but not dead cold. Just Giorno cold. All things considered, it could be worse.
“I’d never forgive you if you fell.”
“Oh, it’s almost twelve.” Giorno’s thumb circles the watch on Fugo’s wrist. “I said I would kiss you then, didn’t I?”
“Are you still joking?”
“Maybe I am.”
He smiles, but Fugo can find no comfort in it.
I love you. I always have. Even though I knew these feelings could not be pursued… I’ve been looking for a way to stay by your side. It feels wrong. What is this strange feeling, this odd sickness bubbling in the pit of Fugo’s heart that whispers, go now, go now, or you’ll never have another chance? This isn’t how he dreamed of things going. This isn’t the Giogio he fell in love with.
It’s no use. Hands trembling, Fugo moves Giorno’s head to face his. Why do people kiss on New Years? It still makes no sense.
“Do you love me, Fugo?”
“God… I wish you wouldn’t ask.”
Giorno’s breath, a fog in the cold air, swirls around them as their lips meet.
His hands are cold, clinging to the back of Fugo’s neck as though their parting will be more than physical. Fugo holds him tighter. Kisses him harder. Impassioned. Afraid. I can’t let you go. I don’t know where you’re going. I don’t know what you’ll do when you leave my arms. His hands slide to Giorno’s hips as the kiss deepens.
“Mn- Fugo, I- oh!”
I don’t understand. Why did you want to kiss me on New Years? Did you know about my feelings? Is this the beginning of something? Or were you just trying to say goodbye?
I love you. Don’t go where I can’t follow you. Don’t act like you’re going to leave me here.
Giogio.
Giogio.
Giogio!
Giorno slips out of his hands. Inside, people cheer as the new year begins. The party will go on, and on, and on. Outside, two bodies huddle together, panting.
“...Wow. That was really something,” Giorno says, finally.
“Better than the view?”
“Hmm…” Giorno’s eyes glint. “I’d have to try it again to be sure.”
---
January 1st, 2006
Things must have deepened from there. However, Fugo has decided to ignore that reality for as long as feasibly possible.
Anyway, Mista will probably bestow the details upon him the next time he sees him.
Fugo swallows. It does nothing to soothe his dry throat. He picks up his clothes- the willows sag, defeated- and puts on as much as is necessary to not be considered indecent. He pushes open the door to the balcony.
The thorns carve only one path forward-- towards, and over, the railing. Still, a single golden iris, crushed by a heavy weight, but still bravely keeping her weak head up, sprouts at the very end like a little yellow stop sign. Don’t go, she begs. There is still a way. We can carve out the path through the darkness.
…So these are your feelings, Giogio. I wish I’d seen it before.
Fugo scratches the chin of the plant, for no particular reason. She is the thin thread that he hangs by. She deserves more than Fugo’s thanks.
The balcony door creaks weakly. Fugo does not need to turn to know who it is.
“You’re… still here.”
Giorno clutches his thin robe to his chest, biting his bottom lip so hard it bleeds. His eyes lower. A trembling overtakes him, and he sinks to his knees, choking as though sobs are desperate to be freed from his chest. Fugo pulls him into his arms. The robe, missing its tie, flutters open as Giorno returns the hug, gasping and pressing his face into the crook of Fugo’s neck. He smells like sweat and plant pollen.
“I thought-- I thought--”
Fugo rubs his back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“Oh, God… Seeing you-- it hit me all at once-- I thought I was finally ready, and then--”
Fugo can’t help it. Seeing him like this, struggling to free crushing emotions from his soul, hair a tangled mess, half naked, trembling like a child in his arms- I fought as hard as I could to keep going, I swear I did, but I just couldn’t take it anymore- Fugo can’t stop himself from weeping.
How long have you been living like this? How long have you been trying to hold on by yourself? Why didn’t I notice before?
“Giogio,” he says, eyes brimming, “Why did you kiss me last night?”
Fugo already knows the answer. Because nothing mattered to me anymore. Because I wanted to feel something.
Because I thought it would be the last thing I ever did.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” Giorno gasps. “Do you still love me…?”
Am I still the one you fell in love with? When I’m not lucky? When I’m not in control? When all I want is to lay in bed all day and drown myself in alcohol and blast my head off? Even ugly and unwashed and lonely like this, do you still love me?
Is it okay if I’m just painting gold over chipped wood?
“I could never, ever, ever, stop loving you,” Fugo replies, voice shaking.
Giorno spills over. He melts into Fugo’s arms, warm and impossibly messy, unpracticed, uncomposed. The pain doesn’t disappear. The weight may never come off his shoulders-- such is the tragedy of life. Yet still…
“If you feel heavy, lean on me. If you can’t feel anymore, I’ll do it for you. If you don’t know how to keep moving forward in this world, I’ll guide you. If you feel like you’re falling behind…”
Fugo squeezes him for dear life. His tears have blurred his vision, but the path ahead feels more certain than ever. This is no game of chance. This is real, impossibly real. Giorno’s hand on his shoulder. His hand on Giorno’s waist.
“Let me take the lead.”
Even if you never get the hang of it… I’ll carry you for the rest of my life. This is my promise to you. This is our new beginning.
It doesn’t have to be romantic. If they never kiss or hug or sleep together for the rest of their lives, Fugo can still die happy as long as he could live by the side of the one he loves more than life itself.
He wipes a tear from Giorno’s face. Giorno leans into his hand. They kiss- properly, lovingly, this time- to welcome a new beginning.
The thorns and willows do not recede from the balcony, nor do they release the prisoners they’ve taken within Giorno’s room. That’s not how the world works. The sky is still dark. It’s still cold outside. But behind the two of them, at the very edge of the balcony, one more golden iris- one more drop of hope- has sprouted.
Maybe that’s all anyone needs to keep moving forward.