Work Text:
It’s nearly nine pm when Fugo pulls up outside of an oversized mansion. Light spills from the many windows, illuminating the dark of night. He leans forward to look past Giorno and catch a better glimpse of the building. It isn’t quite as big as the one Giorno owns in Naples, but it’s not too shabby.
Fugo isn’t known for being a party guy, but it just so happened that he was the only one available to accompany Giorno tonight. It seemed everyone else had other tasks to complete.
“Okay, remember what I said. Keep your eyes on your drink at all times. Come find me if something weird happens, or if an enemy stand appears.” Fugo reminds him, careful not to sound condescending. Younger or not, Giorno is his boss, after all.
But Giorno just smiles that subdued, passive smile at him and nods. “Thank you, Mr. Designated Driver.”
Fugo lets out a little huff of a laugh. He’s about to step out of the car when he remembers what Mista had told him about the last party.
A total fucking lightweight, if he recalled the words correctly. He had been referring to Giorno.
So, before Giorno can open the door, Fugo rests a hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, and…” he waits for a second until Giorno meets his eyes to finish. “Try not to drink too much, okay? There’s a really important reason you’re here, after all. We don’t want you getting too drunk before you can accomplish your goal.”
Giorno frowns lightly. “I’m not a kid, Pannacotta. I at least know that.”
Despite his words, he doesn’t sound very offended. Then again, Giorno’s tone doesn’t often reveal any sort of emotion.
“Alright. Let’s go then.”
The inside of the building is even more extravagant than the outside, and it’s swarmed with beautiful, rich people.
Fugo feels out of place.
Giorno is running about for the majority of the time they’re at the party, and Fugo only glimpses him from time to time speaking to one important person or another
Fugo resigns himself to one corner of the huge room and sips expensive champagne, unsure of the long table laden with dishes no matter how delicious they look.
When Fugo sees Giorno later, stumbling through the crowd of well-dressed people, he can tell that Giorno’s not doing so well.
It takes him but a second to rush to Giorno’s side. Giorno looks surprised by his sudden appearance, staring up at him with bright green eyes and pink cheeks.
“P… p…” He stammers incoherently. Fugo frowns, but doesn’t comment. He guides Giorno to the door after they say their goodbyes to the host (or more like, Fugo says goodbye and Giorno leans against his side uselessly), and then into the car.
The drive is quick and quiet, what with the amount of lights Fugo runs. When they get home, Fugo wordlessly ushers Giorno into the house.
“Are you gonna be sick?” He asks, and despite the fact that Giorno shakes his head in denial, he takes him to the bathroom anyway.
It turns out Giorno actually doesn’t need to empty his stomach, despite the fact that he can’t walk straight. So Fugo just stands with Giorno as he sways, and lets Giorno latch onto him and lean against him heavily.
Fugo makes a mental note not to leave Giorno unattended at the next party.
The arms around his neck suddenly tug, and Fugo realizes that Giorno has slipped on something. He throws his arms around Giorno’s waist in an attempt to steady him.
“Hey, easy.” He tries, but Giorno can’t seem to balance himself. Just how much did he drink? To mercifully end Giorno’s struggling, Fugo squats and shifts his arms down to hook under Giorno’s butt. He hauls him up off the ground and deposits him onto the mini counter beside the bathroom sink.
Giorno looks… frazzled. His hair is slightly ruffled, his clothes are a little disheveled, and his face is dusted in a rose pink.
“Giorno…” Fugo starts, disappointment seeping into his words. “Are you drunk?”
Giorno immediately shakes his head. Quite vehemently, too. Fugo stares, and then tilts his head and stares some more.
How odd.
Giorno seems totally lucid, but it’s like he’s just lost all motor control. Fugo gently holds Giorno’s chin and turns his head this way and that. Then, he unbutton his blazer, vest, and button up and discards each piece of clothing. Giorno makes no move to stop him. In fact, he barely moves at all.
After examining his front, arms, and back with the help of the mirror behind him, Fugo concludes that Giorno doesn’t have any external injuries.
“What’s happened to you…” he whispers, perplexed.
“St…. St…” Giorno stutters, apparently unable to form words. He doesn’t need to finish, though. Fugo knows exactly what he’s trying to say, and the cause for this strange behavior is instantly clear.
“A stand?!” He exclaims, surprised. Giorno nods, looking relieved that Fugo could understand him.
“I see… then the stand impaired your physical abilities, including speech… It’s smart. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were just drunk.” He taps a finger against his chin. “But why? It’s not like the user could have forced any information out of you in a state like that… did they intend on kidnapping you?”
Fugo looks up, but Giorno just stares back at him, clearly unable to respond. But even if he could, Fugo doubts it would be helpful. Giorno seems as lost to the user’s intentions as he is.
“Well it doesn’t matter now, does it? We’re home and his attempts have obviously failed.” He holds out his arms to Giorno. “Come on. Maybe you can sleep this off.”
But Giorno raises his arms to stop Fugo. “What?” Fugo asks. “You don’t need my help?” Giorno seems to think better of the gesture and instead puts his arms in the form of an ‘x’.
“Sl.. sleep.” He manages to force out, and emphasizes the shape he’s making by bumping his forearms together.
“No sleep?” Fugo guesses, and Giorno nods. Fugo sighs, and he can’t help the exasperation in his tone. “I bet you’re planning on working, huh?”
But Giorno just shakes his head lightly, and pushes himself off of the counter and into Fugo’s arms. Fugo carefully helps Giorno out of the bathroom, up the stairs, and into his bedroom.
He leaves the room after depositing Giorno onto the bed despite Giorno’s many sounds of protest, and returns a moment later with a pen and pad.
“Maybe you can write what you need to say instead.” He suggests, handing them over to Giorno.
But it’s just like his struggle walking and talking, as he can only make a wobbly line and no real letters. Unless he was intending to make an ‘i’, of course, which Fugo greatly doubts.
Giorno makes a tiny, frustrated huff and shakes his head.
“Got it.” Fugo nods, taking the stationery from him. “No writing.” He sits for a while, thinking and thinking. Giorno watches him the whole time, but Fugo ignores it. “How about… typing on your phone? Hitting buttons might be easier.”
Giorno pulls his phone out of the pocket in his slacks, and Fugo is reminded that he’s still shirtless. He fetches a tee shirt out of one of Giorno’s drawers (and really isn’t surprised by the Hello Kitty design) and helps him put it on before watching Giorno unlock his phone with shaky movements.
Giorno begins to tap away at the screen. It takes longer than normal due to the stand’s effects, but Fugo waits patiently for a minute before asking, “How is it? Is it working?”
Giorno just shows him the screen. He has a note opened, and on it are the words, “Diddn’t loik awsy from mt drink. Proud of me?”
Fugo disregards the miserable spelling for Giorno’s sake. It’s only to be expected, what with how his fingers shake and twitch.
From the small smile on Giorno’s face, Fugo can tell he’s joking. “No messing around. We have to figure out who did this to you.”
Giorno shakes his head. “We csn do that latet. I’m hungrg.”
“Giorno.” Fugo groans. “Can’t we at least talk about what happened before I make something to eat?”
“Can’t rmemeber anythinf signitfivant.” Then, Giorno types some more and shows him, “Work 🤢” Fugo eyes the green-faced nauseous emoji with his lips quirked in displeasure.
“How come you never want to get things done with me around?” Fugo asks, more than a little upset. “It’s like I’m always the only one not doing anything. Tonight for example. Everyone else had something to do except for me. Yes, this party was very important, but you could have just given me Mista’s work and taken him instead. His stand would have been better suited for protecting you, anyway.”
Fugo pauses, and then something dawns on him. “Do you… not want me in the organization? Is that why you won’t give me anything to do?”
“I guve you thinga to do. Paperwerk.”
“Yeah, and then you watch me do it.” Fugo has another realization. “You’re always calling me to your office when there’s nothing to talk about. Are you keeping me close because you don’t trust me?”
Giorno frowns. The taps on his screen sound a little harder. “Panna’s alwats yhinking the qorst. Csn’t rhink of any ither reasons I wiuld do thst?”
Panna.
Fugo has nothing to say, so Giorno goes and types something else. “Wanted to apend time woth you. Do you wsnt mire work inatead?”
Fugo stares at the screen, and then at the warmth coloring Giorno’s cheeks. It’s strange, to see his composed face all flushed like that.
“Oh.” He says. And then the pieces start falling together. “Okay.” Now he feels like he was being unnecessarily dramatic.
“Oksy? You want mpre work?”
“No, okay as in I get it now. I don’t know. Something to do would be nice, but… if you want me around, then. Okay.”
“Unhsppy?”
“No! I just didn’t expect that answer. It surprised me.”
Giorno looks at him in silence. Fugo can do nothing but return his gaze. It feels like a long time passes where they just stare at each other.
Fugo wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead and absently wonders if someone came home and turned on the heat without them noticing.
“Meeying tomorrow. 12pm. I’ll mske sure there’s simething for you to do.” Fugo reads those words and pauses for a brief moment.
“Is that… an innuendo?” Giorno’s eyebrows fly up in surprise, and then he lets out a little snort. He shakes his head ‘no’. Fugo is momentarily transfixed with the darkening splashes of color on Giorno’s face. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Was thrre a different kund of work you hsd in mind?” Fugo is so unbelievably embarrassed.
“No, I’m sorry. I just- I’m sorry. That was unprofessional.” Giorno’s smile begins to grow, and Fugo can’t believe how fond he looks.
“Nit unprofessipnal. We csn make that happrn.”
“Please stop messing with me, Giogio.” Fugo can only guess how red he must be by now, so he tilts his head forward to let his snow white hair fall in front of his face.
It doesn’t take long for Giorno to reach out and carefully brush his bangs out of the way. When Fugo looks up again, Giorno’s screen flashes against his sensitive red eyes, but he manages to read it nonetheless.
“Sorry. You’re si pretty whrn youu blush.” Fugo feels ridiculous to scan his eyes across such a terribly spelt sentence and still feel like the wind’s been knocked out of him, and he bites back the urge to argue that Giorno’s prettier.
He’s flushed, his usually neat blonde hair is a mess, and his clothes are mismatched, the top looking like pajamas and the bottom all business, but he’s still so much prettier.
He decides not to because his attention is drawn to the growing tremble in Giorno’s arms. Maybe the stand was affecting him more than Fugo originally thought.
“Stop typing, your body’s struggling to keep up.” He plucks the phone from Giorno’s hands much to his displeasure.
Giorno glares at him and manages to say a single word. “Don.”
Fugo freezes. “Ah. Yes, Giorno, you are the Don.” He tilts his head. “But even the don can be scolded by the people who care about him sometimes, no?”
Giorno falls silent, and then his expression lightens back to neutrality. Fugo has a feeling he wasn’t actually upset in the first place.
“Don’t scare me like that.” He hisses. “I thought I had seriously overstepped.” Giorno smiles, and shakes his head.
“You…” he takes a slow, deep breath, meeting Fugo’s eyes before continuing. “Can’t.” Fugo takes the fact that he can say complete words as a good sign.
“Good to know.” Fugo muses. He leans forward and plants his hands on Giorno’s shoulders, attempting to mimic Bruno’s stern expression and voice. “Go to sleep, Giovanna.”
Giorno laughs that soft, sweet laugh of his, and nods. “Giogio.” He reminds Fugo.
Fugo can’t help but smile. He repeats, much gentler, “Right. Go to sleep, Giogio.”
Giorno nods again, firmer this time, and slips out of his slacks before he goes under his sheets. Fugo throws the pants over his arm and leans forward, carefully unclipping Giorno’s hair for him. “There, all set.”
But when he tries to leave, Giorno grabs onto his arm and stares.
“… what?” Fugo asks. Giorno releases him to point down at the vacant part of his bed, the spot Fugo just stood up from.
“Sleep.” He says. Fugo frowns.
“Yeah, Giogio. Go to sleep.” Then he reaches over and knocks on Giorno’s skull. “Did that stand mess with your brain too?”
Giorno shakes his head. “You.”
“Oh yeah. I’m going to sleep, don’t worry.” Giorno suddenly squints at him and furrows his eyebrows. He looks annoyed.
“Here.” Fugo pauses, and then his head starts to spin.
“What? You want… what??” Seriously, he thinks as his coat suddenly becomes stifling, who’s messing with the heater?
Giorno doesn’t respond, only reiterating his point by patting the bed.
“Can I at least change first?” Fugo asks meekly. Giorno hums, shooing him towards the door and knowing he’s won.
And that’s how Pannacotta Fugo ends up in bed beside the Don of Passione.
He tries to settle his heartbeat, but Giorno makes it harder when he puts his arms around Fugo’s middle.
“I better get a pay raise for this.” He whispers, half joking. Giorno hums in thought, before apparently settling on a decision.
“Here.” He says, and he leans forward to press a kiss to Fugo’s cheek.
“Cool.” Fugo breathes out, unable to say much more now that his heart has probably exploded. “Much better than money.”