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leecherish · 3 years

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A Brand New Doomsday

Summary:

“You come into our lives, you sweep them off their feet-, Then you come back, and you have the audacity to-“ His grip tightened on Giorno’s wrist.

“I understand. You are free to do as you please. No one knows I’m here.”

Fugo noticed that Giorno’s eyes had deep, dark circles under them. He grit his teeth, and jabbed Giorno’s hand away from him.

“What’s- What’s the point? Tell me, what would be the point?” Tears of despair and anger started to fall from his eyes, streaming down on his face. “Even if I- Even if I beat the shit out of you- It wouldn’t make them come back.”

_____________

Pannacotta Fugo goes through a journey of emotional growth, during which he learns to accept the past, and have hope in the future.

Remember when Hell had frozen over? The cold still burns underneath my skin The water is rising all around me And there is nothing left I can give

“Is Pannacotta Fugo in this room?”

The five people surrounding the restaurant table have raised their heads as one – including Fugo himself. The man asking the question was a middle-aged man of average height and average looks – a shirt tucked into his jeans, sleeves rolled up on his arms. He carried a medium-sized luggage with him. He looked just like any tourist would.

Fugo recognized a veteran gangster, when he saw one. Blending in, as he should.

So much for a peaceful lunch, though, he thought, as his eyes met with Buccellati’s. He saw the same question reflected in them – why Fugo, and not him?

Even though Fugo was technically Bruno’s second-in-command, Bruno was the one people usually talked to. After all, he was Bruno Buccellati. Fugo knew Bruno is going to be the one to reach the rank of capo one day – so why was this man asking for Pannacotta Fugo instead?

“Yes, sir. At your service.” He replied, standing up from his half-finished slice of pizza.

The man nodded, quickly flashed his Passione badge, and then turned his back to the group.

“Very well. Follow me, Mr. Fugo.”

Fugo looked at Buccellati again, mostly out of habit, waiting for affirmation – Bruno seemed just as confused as he was, but he nodded.

“What did you do, Fugo? Are you in trouble?” Narancia asked in a hushed voice, mouth full of pizza, eyes wide.

“Of course he isn’t!” Mista snapped at the opposite end of the table, but he also had a worried look in his eyes.

“You better not” Abbacchio hissed. “I know you know better than that.”

“I’ll be right back.” Fugo said, and followed the man out the door.

“Listen here, Mr. Fugo.”

The man took a taxi with him to the nearby train station. They were standing next to the station building, facing towards the rails. Tourists were everywhere, arguing with one another, pulling their luggage, chit-chatting. The two gangsters’ voices were easily drowned out by the noise around them.

“I believe you are the right hand of Bruno Buccellati. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am Carlo Torrone, and I am here on the behalf of the capo of this territory, Polpo. Are you familiar with Risotto Nero?”

“I’m afraid I’m not, sir.”

“Then listen closely. His gang was recently accused of betrayal. Two of his men sniffed around where they shouldn’t’ve.”

And with that, we are off to a good start, Fugo thought, but he remained unfazed on the surface.

“Do you want to know how they were dealt with? One of them…” He held up a photo of a short, black-haired man. “…was chopped up, preserved, and then sent in pieces to the rest of the team. The other…” He held up another photo, this time of a blonde. “…had to watch as his teammate went through the previously described procedure, and choked on his gag.”

Fugo remained silent.

“Do you understand? Passione will not tolerate traitors. Nero’s team was taught a lesson, but I hope that you understand that we do not want to deal with… similar cases. So you, as the second-in-command… Will you keep an eye on Bruno Buccellati, and your teammates?”

Did this man just say that he suspects someone amongst them will betray the organization?

“…You do not want them to end up like Risotto Nero’s men did, do you?”

“I understand.” Fugo finally said.

The man handed him a piece of paper, with an address written on it.

“Good. You can find me on this address. Just say that you are looking for Carlo Torrone. Report back on every Wednesday between noon and two.”

With that, the man quickly got on the train that was just about to pull out of the station, and disappeared.

Fugo didn’t think a lot about this conversation. He would do the weekly reports, same as always – nothing suspicious. It was more of a chore for him, than an assignment.

Up until Buccellati introduced them to Giorno Giovanna on that day. He made a good first impression on them for sure, yet there was something about him that rubbed him in the wrong way.

Fugo couldn’t help but think, he’s going to be the one to betray us.

He felt ashamed by this thought right after – what right did he have to judge people based on first appearances?

The waves of the river crashed into the stairs, the early morning sun reflecting off of it.

The boat has already disappeared on the horizon.

As Fugo was sitting on the stairs leading to the river, watching his shoes being soaked by the waves, he wondered if he was right. He came along, and with him, Bruno… no, everyone else changed.

Bruno is one thing but Abbacchio? Fugo slammed his fist onto the pavement in frustration. Abbacchio! I thought at least you’d have some form of rational thought left in you. But to follow your heart to this extent… Weren’t you a cop, for fuck’s sake?

Could Abbacchio have stopped Narancia from leaving? He respected Abbacchio at the very least. If he would have remained, then maybe-

Tears were burning his throat, as he remembered Narancia. He didn’t even see him jumping into the river, he entirely missed the moment. If he was faster, maybe if he wrapped his arms around him in time, if he didn’t let go…

They didn’t even get to say goodbye.

If only Giorno didn’t-

A savage roar followed by a loud crack was heard far behind him, as Purple Haze slammed its fist down on the pavement, revealing the mud under the stones. A virus-ladden cloud emerged from the hole.

Fugo couldn’t remember how long it’d been since Purple Haze acted outside of his will.

So much for being able to control at least one thing.

He almost died for him back then.

He could still remember the way his heart sank, when he saw Giorno enter the mirror world, his hand bubbling from Purple Haze’s virus.

What is wrong with you, he thought angrily. If Abbacchio tells Buccellati that Purple Haze killed the new guy…

Will it give him the right to say “I told you so”?

But by the end, Giorno managed to turn the entire situation around. And as Fugo watched him, he felt a tiny bit of warmth settle into his heart, like a golden speck, like a budding flower.

Remembering that feeling made him want to break things.

The boss didn’t care about him anymore. He was so preoccupied with the traitors, he never got around to addressing Fugo.

Fugo didn’t return to the headquarters. He rented a flat, and started studying again. Not like he planned to ever go near his school again, but anything was better than the crushing aimlessness he woke up with every single day.

He was still technically a member of Passione, but he was on the run. While, at the same time, he wasn’t running anywhere.

By the time he would have been found out, the boss was dead. Giorno Giovanna became the new boss.

Fugo would find himself in front of Libeccio before he knew it, his hands clammy around his Passione badge. The waiter recognized him.

Through him, Fugo would learn that Bruno, Narancia and Abbacchio died on the mission, and that he will never see them again.

As long as he didn’t see their graves, he could hope that all of this was just a bad dream.

Days passed. Then weeks. Months.

Despite it only being August, the evening was rather chilly. It wasn’t cold, but as soon as Fugo exited the library, he wordlessly thanked his past self for bringing a sweater. A light breeze raised goosebumps on his arms, the setting sun filtering thought the leaves.

Fugo was writing a few articles for philosophy magazines around this time, hidden behind an alias. He didn’t assume anyone remembered the prodigy who beat his professor half-dead with a dictionary, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Truth to be told, he actually enjoyed doing this kind of thing. It was distracting, mentally stimulating, and metaphysics was something he was genuinely interested in – unlike law.

There was something about this evening that finally made Fugo take the fated detour from the way home.

It wasn’t hard finding their graves. Bruno was loved all around the town, so almost everyone could point Fugo to it, and it was obvious that Abbacchio and Narancia would be close by.

The graves weren’t as ornate as Fugo expected them to be. Just a simple marble headstone with their name, and their date of birth followed by their date of death. Suddenly it struck him, how young they were. Abbacchio was only twenty-one, Bruno only twenty – Narancia was only a year older than me, for fuck’s sake. Frustration gathered at his throat, squeezing it, the bitter flare of guilt burning in his stomach. He clenched his fists to his chest, to stop it from shaking.

Outside of the various bouquets left there by civilians, all three of the graves were covered with wildflowers. Yellow for Abbacchio, orange for Narancia, blue for Bruno. Though wildflowers, they were almost too lush to be natural. For a heartbeat, Fugo wondered the cause behind that.

“Hello, Fugo.”

He flinched – the familiar voice sent a jolt of electricity up on his spine. Giorno was standing behind him, dressed in an elegant black coat, holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“Giorno.” His name was only two syllables, yet Fugo’s voice still managed to crack.

“I assumed I’d see you here sooner or later.” Giorno stepped to Bruno’s grave, squatted down and started to place the flowers between the wildflowers – rose, chrysanthemum, lily, one by one.

“It’s the ritual of it, I presume” Giorno continued, seemingly answering Fugo’s wordless question. “I know, that they will wither. Cut flowers aren’t fated to last for long. But that fact alone doesn’t mean they don’t have value, while they are still alive.”

He was done with decorating Bruno’s grave, and was about to move onto Narancia’s, but before he knew, Fugo’s hand violently gripped his wrist, and pulled him up to his feet. The bouquet from Giorno’s lap tumbled on the ground, lilies scattering at their feet. Fugo was shaking uncontrollably, and as Giorno finally locked eyes with him, something became clear. Something that was sleeping in Fugo’s chest until now, suddenly became alive, furiously gnawing at him.

It was your fault. You were the traitor I had to look out for. It’s your fault that they are dead.

“I understand.” Giorno was faster than him again, but this was as far as Fugo could bear it.

“You- You understand?! How dare-, How fucking dare you to say that to my face, Giorno Giovanna?”

Giorno was quietly observing his face. Fugo pretended that he didn’t notice.

“You come into our lives, you sweep them off their feet-, Then you come back, and you have the audacity to-“ His grip tightened on Giorno’s wrist.

“I understand. You are free to do as you please. No one knows I’m here.”

Fugo noticed that Giorno’s eyes had deep, dark circles under them. He grit his teeth, and jabbed Giorno’s hand away from him.

He crushed a few lilies under his feet as he stormed out of the graveyard.

Giorno was too tired to reach out and revive them.

Fugo avoided the graveyard from that day on.

What I said wasn’t justified, was the conclusion he came to, as he was staring at the wall during yet another sleepless night. He knew what Giorno was trying to tell him when he talked about cut flowers.

Their deaths weren’t in vain.

Fugo bit down on the edge of his pillow so he wouldn’t start screaming into the emptiness of his flat. It didn’t matter what Giorno said, he felt like he couldn’t trust him. Not anymore, that is.

Fugo had the tendency to not trust people with authority. Unless they were Bruno Buccellati. But Bruno was dead.

He hugged himself, burying his face in his knees.

What if I completely forget? What if I never accept? 'Cause when you fade away It's like a brand new doomsday

“Hey, you! Turn around!”

Fugo’s shoulders jerked, as he recognized the voice shouting at him. Serves him well, no one forced him to hang out on the streets near Libeccio. He wondered if he, subconsciously, did it on purpose. Old habits die hard, after all.

He did as the voice ordered him to, and slowly turned around.

Standing in front of him, out of breath was Guido Mista. For a few moments, neither of them said a thing. Mista was panting, as if he was running, after catching a glimpse of a familiar figure in the crowd from the other end of the street…

“Mista…” Fugo began, but the click! of Mista’s gun immediately cut him off.

“Don’t… say another fucking word, Fugo.” Mista made sure that every word of his was well-articulated. His right hand, holding the gun was supported by his left for better aiming, but also to stop it from shaking.

None of the citizens around them batted an eye to the scene unfolding in front of their eyes – those who did, quickly looked the other way, and sped up their steps.

Fugo bit down on his tongue. The thought of raising his hands in surrender did cross his mind, but he felt dumb about it immediately. The least he could do is to not break the eye contact with Mista. If this is where he gets his brains blown out, he might as well go out with retaining his pride.

After a few seconds that felt like minutes, Mista slowly exhaled, and lowered his gun.

“My bad, Fugo. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pull a gun on you in broad daylight. My body just… sort of moved on its own.”

“I mean… I wasn’t very surprised by it either” Fugo mumbled, still lightheaded and surprised by Mista’s genuinely apologetic tone. “Please don’t apologize, I-“

“No” Mista cut him off again, seemingly uncomfortable. He looked to the side, as he stowed away his gun. “I… I mean, I was, I am angry, but… I wouldn’t want to kill you.”

Fugo was speechless.

“The way I see it… I just think life is too short for keeping grudges. As angry as I am, I think I can understand why you did what you did at the boat.”

“Mista-“

“I… I just wanted a simple life, you know? Having fun, hanging out with my friends, going on dates, eating good food…” Mista took a step towards Fugo, and his expression hardened. “But it’s not that easy in our line of work. Boarding that boat… It was way too impulsive. I think deep down, I wanted to do the same thing you did.” He looked straight into Fugo’s eyes. “As horrible as that sounds. But that just how I feel.”

They stayed silent for a few seconds.

“I… Mista. Thank you.” Fugo wanted to say more, he wanted to say so much more, but he suddenly felt like all of his energy has been sapped from his body.

Neither of them remembered hugging the other before, but right there, it seemed like the most obvious thing ever.

“Why don’t you rejoin Passione?” Mista asked the question a few weeks later, right after they were done with lunch, and Fugo was deeply immersed in a fashion magazine. “I’m more than sure Giorno would welcome you amongst our ranks again.”

Upon hearing Giorno’s name, Fugo’s gut reaction was so intense, that he almost tore the page he was holding between his fingers in half.

“Uh, well.” He sighed, and closed the magazine, knowing there’s no way he’ll be able to focus on the article anymore. “I think I haven’t been able to really… To, come in terms with…” Mista waited patiently, as Fugo was gathering his words. “There is no way around it, Mista. I haven’t been able to… forgive Giorno.”

Mista’s gaze darkened, as if remembering something.

“I met him a few weeks ago, in front of Buccellati’s grave” Fugo continued. “He said something about… their deaths not being in vain. Followed it up by saying he understands how I feel. At that moment, all I could think of was…”

“I know what you mean by not being able to forgive” Mista interrupted him. “I… also have dark thoughts sometimes. All of it- All of it happened so fast. He has arrived, we set off, and then... I knew them for years…“ He made a vague gesture, and inhaled with a shudder. “So don’t think it was from one day to the other.”

“But you’re still here” Fugo said, as a matter of fact. Mista nodded, and took a sip of his coffee.

“I am. Because no matter how you look at it, it wasn’t his goddamn fault. It was… no one’s fault other than the boss’. But he got what came for him, so… it’s over.”

“I get that” Fugo said slowly, “but you don’t have any obligations, not anymore. Why did you choose to stay? Didn’t you say that you want a peaceful life?”

“Yes, but… Man, fuck it, I’ll just say it – I’d be lonely without the gang. Even though it’s just the two of us now… It still feels like home, you know?”

Fugo knew. The hole in his chest – the absence of a place he could call home. But the something that he became aware of during that afternoon at the graveyard was still there, gnawing, clawing, and howling.

Grief, Fugo realized. Was it grief all along?

“Grief makes you feel… not like yourself” Mista said, as if he read Fugo’s mind. “But if you keep waiting for the day when it will all be over without doing anything, you will never get there. I think you should seek Giorno out, and report for duty. You still have your badge, right? You never stopped being the member of Passione, did you?”

“Do you assume he would just… take me back?” Fugo stared into his cup of Earl Grey, gone cold by now.

Mista scratched his chin, deep in thought. “I think so, yeah. If he didn’t trust you, I feel like he would have sought you out by now.” Fugo looked up, his eyes met with Mista’s. “Maybe he’s waiting for you to take the first step. Maybe he counts on you showing up sooner or later.”

I assumed I’d see you here sooner or later.

“He- We need you, Fugo. Please.” Mista’s gaze was almost pleading. “I swear to fucking god, I miss you so much from there.”

“What about… Trish?”

“She…” Mista’s face painfully winced. “You know, I think she’s in the same shoes as you. Not being able to forgive… but I think it’s more about forgiving herself. After all, it was the boss – her father who killed…” His voice halted. “We haven’t been in contact ever since we came back.”

Thinking back to it, Fugo did see something in Trish that reminded him of himself – maybe it was the “strained” relationship with their parents?

“Listen, to tell you the truth, Giorno’s not doing great” Mista quieted his voice down, suddenly sounding very sad. “He’s very good at keeping up his façade, but he’s grieving, too. Polnareff and I try to keep his spirits up, but…”

“Why are you telling me this, Mista?”

“I’m just trying to tell you that maybe he does know how you feel.”

Like hell, he does, the grief howled in Fugo.

“All of this would be so much easier together. Why don’t you give it a try?” Mista reached across the table, and put one of his hands on Fugo’s shoulder.

Fugo looked deeply into Mista’s eyes. You have changed, he thought.

“Have you eaten lunch, kid?”

Giorno was hard at work ever since he woke up. In the morning he had attended a conference, and he had been sorting files out ever since he got back, seemingly tirelessly.

“Not yet.”

Coco Jumbo was resting on the windowsill. Polnareff’s ghost floating over it shook his head.

“Take a break. I see you’re having some problems focusing.”

“I don’t think your observation is correct.” Giorno murmured, and stowed away the pile of files he was done with. “I’m not taking a break until I’m done with all of this.”

“Giorno, we’ve talked about this.” Polnareff let out a sigh, and propped his elbows on the supposed edge of Mr. President. “You cannot go on and deny yourself basic necessities, just because you don’t think that you deserve them.”

“Mmhm.” Giorno wasn’t paying attention.

“Giorno, listen-“

Polnareff was cut off by Giorno’s office door opening. Mista entered the room, followed by Fugo.

Their eyes have met, and Giorno tried to guess what Fugo felt at that moment.

Little did he know, Fugo was doing the same.

“Pannacotta Fugo, reporting for duty.” He said with one breath, and bowed deeply in the direction of Giorno.

He was accepted without a trial. Fugo was even baffled by how casually Giorno seemed to handle his case. In general, Giorno seemed to handle everything too casually. Which is why…

Giorno really ticked Fugo off. Sometimes it took all of his self-control to not grab him by the collar of his fancy garments, and scream in his face.

Fugo grew familiar with all of Giorno’s little rituals fairly quickly. There was the most obvious one – the little memorial site organized on the top of a drawer. A lily, a yellow chrysanthemum, one of Bruno’s zippers, and a bottle of wine.

The flowers were, of course, cut flowers. Fugo still found the metaphor way too morbid.

Giorno would also absentmindedly turn objects into small animals, and every time he did, the animal would always bear a hauntingly familiar mark – a frog with a checkered, orange-yellow pattern, a beetle with a white shell, adorned with black dots, a snail with a purple, six pointed star on the top of its shell.

As much as Fugo wished to take his mind off these things, he wasn’t exactly neck-deep in work. He would do the occasional patrols around the area, communicate with civilians, and would report back to Giorno every evening. So when Giorno mentioned that he’d need someone for an urgent and private job, Fugo immediately volunteered, without even knowing what the job will be about.

Anything to break the usual routine, he thought. He was lonely when he was living on his own, but doing the same rounds every single day, only to return to Giorno’s office to see him deeply immersed in his work, surrounded with animals who were haunted by the ghost of his family – calling his attention to it, trying not to notice him staring at the space behind him – it drove Fugo mad.

“Then, that’s sorted” Giorno shuffled around with the files on his desk. “The job is to seek out, and hopefully, neutralize a group of ex-Passione members – they’ve not only found out that Diavolo has been replaced, they also have made attempts to join forces with rival gangs, in order to overthrow me. Of course, you will be assigned as my bodyguard for this mission.”

Fugo’s blood suddenly ran cold.

“What do you mean, Giorno?!” Mista broke out from his stance, and slammed his hands down on Giorno’s table.

“This is a very serious issue, Mista. I have to deal with this personally.” Giorno declared in a strong, and clear voice, looking straight into Mista’s eyes. “I am only taking one more person with me so that if I get killed, they can come back and make the necessary arrangements.”

Fugo bit the inside of his mouth. Make the necessary arrangements? Mista might have changed a lot, but Giorno stayed the same, didn’t he?

Part of him always found this aspect of his personality infuriating and somewhat pretentious. But he couldn’t back out by now.

That day, Giorno was wearing that pink attire with the ladybug brooches. Upon seeing him, Fugo almost regret that he also settled back to the two-piece designer suit he wore for their time spent together, earlier this year.

Everything was a constant reminder.

They were standing in the entrance of a church.

“This is it.” Giorno said quietly, as he stepped inside.

“May I ask, what exactly is the task at hand?” Fugo followed him, and closed the door behind them. He ran his eyes along the bench rows. The church wasn’t a very big one, but it was ornate nonetheless – the big shattered glass windows on the side painted colored dots everywhere the light touched down – the cold and elegant marble statues, the frescoes along the wall, the altar.

“Our informant has told us that he has seen the suspects gathering around and inside of this church, so we will search for any sort of clue. If we find as much as a jacket button, we’re already a step ahead.” Giorno sped up his steps, making his way though the nave, towards the altar. “It might be a trap, though.”

“Why didn’t you send someone to scout ahead, then?” Fugo matched his speed with Giorno’s, following him close behind.

Giorno stopped halfway towards the altar, and turned back towards Fugo.

“No human lives are expendable, Fugo. Like I said, this might be a trap. Which is why we are here and not someone else.”

Fugo bit down on his tongue.

“I will go on ahead, and you will stay back.” Giorno proceeded towards the altar, not even stopping to admire the beauty surrounding them.

“Why didn’t you bring Mista instead?” Fugo asked, only to keep it together. “Wouldn’t this all be easier with Sex Pistols around?”

Giorno stopped on his tracks.

“I really don’t like using Purple Haze in closed spaces. Mista has way more control over the Pistols, not to mention-“

“Because Mista wouldn’t stop worrying about me.”

What? Fugo was taken aback by Giorno’s tone.

“And it’s really ticking me off.”

“Giorno… what are you saying?”

As Giorno turned around, and his eyes met Fugo’s, the only word Fugo could describe him with was frightening.

“I though you would notice it, Fugo. After all, you have known him longer than me.”

Shut up. I did. You didn’t.

This conversation really wasn’t going in the direction which Fugo would have wanted it to. He could already feel that familiar sizzle in the back of his throat.

“A defining trait of Mista is staying strong for others. He can’t do it for himself.” Giorno said in a cold, analytical tone, which only fanned the flames of Fugo’s anger higher. “Before me it was for Narancia.”

Narancia. As Giorno said his name, Fugo was suddenly standing on the stairs by San Giorgio Maggiore again, the rising sun reflecting off the waves of the river. He sees Narancia’s figure from the corner of his gaze, he is violently shaking and holding his head between his hands, Fugo wants to reach out for him, he wants to comfort him, but he feels too angry, too betrayed–

“Do you realize that you’re doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Purple Haze.” Giorno raised his arm, and pointed behind Fugo. “Lately when you're angry but you're trying to restrain it, Purple Haze faintly phases behind your back.”

Fugo jerked back, and as he turned his gaze over his shoulder, he felt his stomach sink. Giorno was right. Purple Haze was standing behind him, though not too defined and faded – its figure, its pattern, its savage eyes – it was unmistakably his Stand.

“Fugo. Are you listening to me?”

Fugo tried his hardest not to.

“Bruno, Abbacchio and Narancia-“

A deafening howl tore out from Fugo’s throat, as Purple Haze’s fists slammed down on the two nearest benches, shattering them with such brute force that the entire church was shaken by it. Cracks spread on the ground from under Purple Haze’s fists.

Giorno jumped back, eyes widened in surprise, mouth left agape. Pieces of wood rained over them, as Fugo regained his balance. A statue behind Giorno has fallen, and smashed onto the church floor, pieces of marble spilling on the ground.

Fugo’s insides were searing with white-hot rage, which made him feel like his skin would melt off his body any second.

“What… What right do you have to decide that?” His voice was raw, he kept his fists clenched, hoping that it would keep them from shaking. It didn’t. “How can you keep saying that their deaths were not in vain?”

“Fugo” Giorno dusted himself off, and summoned Gold Experience Requiem behind him. “I’m warning you, this is not a battle that you want to fight. I am immune to Purple Haze’s virus, and you aren’t aware of what Gold Experience Requiem is capable of – in fact, I am not either.”

“The boss was defeated? You became the head of Passione?” Fugo raised his head, and pulled his mouth into a snarl. “Don’t make me fucking laugh! And you dare to say that no human lives are expandable?!”

Giorno was quick – he called out Gold Experience Requiem in front of him, blocking as Purple Haze unleashed a barrage of punches on them with a roar.

“NO – MATTER – HOW – MANY – OTHERS – DIE – NOTHING – WILL – EVER – BRING – THEM – BACK!” Fugo accentuated each word with a punch, and let out a furious cry from the top of his lungs, as he drove Purple Haze’s left fist into Gold Experience Requiem’s stomach, all three of its virus capsules burst, enveloping both of them in a purple mist – it was as if little needles sank into Fugo’s skin as the virus entered his body, Giorno flew back, hit the altar, shattering it…

Except that he didn’t, and it was Fugo who was thrown back, hitting the floor between the bench rows. He let out a pained groan, and tried to get back up on his feet, but his vision was too blurry, head swimming. His hand entered his vision – Purple Haze’s symptoms were… no more?

“I hate to repeat myself” Giorno’s voice rang in his ears, as he was walking towards the bench row “but because it’s you, I’ll say it again. This is not a fight you are ready for. What you just felt was Gold Experience Requiem’s power. Everything you had done – it has returned to zero.”

A loud crash was heard as Purple Haze smashed another statue behind Giorno. Giorno flinched, letting his guard down for a split of a second, giving enough time for Fugo to launch another attack at him, this time with his bare fist.

“It’s useless. You will never reach the truth.”

Fugo stumbled, and it was as if his fist hit an invisible wall between him and Giorno – how fitting, he thought before he fell back, hit his head on the side of a bench, and blacked out for a heartbeat. Blood trickled down on his head.

“Ghhhhaaarrrrr!” Purple Haze let out a roar, out of Fugo’s control yet again, hammering another bench into sharp wooden scraps.

A moment later, Fugo snapped back into consciousness, and saw Giorno emerging from the vibrant purple cloud, still quite far away. He crawled out to the alley, attempting to draw out the distance between them even further, but he found no strength in himself. He grit his teeth, and braced for Giorno’s next move.

Except when Giorno reached him, all he did was extend a hand towards him.

The gesture hung in the air between them, drawn out, vibrating.

“You can’t…” Fugo coughed, and slammed his fist down next to himself. “You can’t pull a fucking… ‘I forgive you’ kind of shit, you hear me, not right now!”

Giorno was looking down on him without a single speck of pity.

“What kind of ‘boss’ would that make you? I wrecked the entire investigation scene because I couldn’t control my temper. Not to mention…” His voice cracked. “That I tried to kill you.”

The last few words’ echoes quietly died down, before Giorno opened his mouth to speak.

“As to why I am forgiving you… there are many reasons.” His voice rang between the church walls, like a psalm on Sunday mornings. “But one that could possibly reach your heart… is that I know Buccellati would do the same.”

Souls don't break, they bend But I sometimes forget I have to do this for you And the only way out is through

The wind was swirling leaves at their feet, as they stood in front of the three graves. Their coats fluttered behind them. Giorno was holding a bouquet of carnations.

“Fugo…”

“Yes?”

“Did Buccellati have dimples when he smiled?”

Fugo shot a confused look towards him, and was immediately gut-punched by the sight - Giorno was staring at the graves with a vacant expression, trembling.

“I feel like I’m forgetting their faces” Giorno burst out, and he ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “I feel like the more time passes, the more I forget their features. It’s…” He looked at Fugo, his eyes dry, but filled to the brim with an unspeakable amount of grief. “I wish I had the chance to see them once again, so I could… engrave every single little detail about them in my mind.”

“Giorno…” Fugo was at a loss for words for a few seconds – before a distant memory hit him from the depths of his subconsciousness.

“Narancia had a photo album of us. It is probably still at Buccellati’s house. Let’s go get it.”

“What?”

“Like I said. We could get photos of everyone. I…” Fugo inhaled deeply. “I’m experiencing the same thing, too. I knew them for years, yet some details… are fading for me, too.”

“Narancia took photos?”

“They weren’t good photos” Fugo said, unable to hold back a tired smile. “Well, most of them, at least. Sometimes Mista would take a few, too. I think there are some taken by me. Abbacchio would always say that it’s a waste of time…”

Giorno let out a relieved sigh, returning Fugo’s smile.

“Thank you for telling.”

“Mmhm.”

Giorno carefully arranged the flowers on the graves one by one, and stood up to admire his work. A gust of wind blew over the graveyard, ruffling their hair.

“Those who have passed…” Giorno mused quietly, eyes closed. “Their resolve is still within us, their lives stand as a shining example, as we head on towards the future. Nothing that ever happens is in vain. They can rest easy, because we will carry their will forward.”

Fugo found that he has nothing to say. He could only acknowledge his heart skipping a beat with joy, as Giorno’s palm fit right into his.

#fugio #jojo's bizarre adventure #vento aureo #jjba part 5 #pannacotta fugo #giorno giovanna #hi. you might be wondering why the fuck am i reposing a year old fic onto a dead site.#that is because i still havent given up on the hope of my shit showing up in the tag one day.#someone told me you need to avoid putting links to it #but yknow. you can find a better formatted version of this on my ao3 @ leecherish.#so please. if you see this in the tag.#please like it. if you even reblog it id kiss you #i dont care if you havent read it. i just want to know if i can rely on tumblr or if its completely a lost cause #but if you even read it i will give you an even bigger kiss. this fic is imporant to me

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