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Fugo was glowing when he returned from Pompeii.
I knew this because Fugo rarely looked that happy. When he talked about what went down, how Giorno had cut off his own arm to provide him with a clue and push him forward, there were stars in his eyes and a movement to his hands that had me enamored. Fugo spoke of Giorno like a hero from one of those epics he often read. I wouldn't be surprised if Fugo started writing one and casted Giorno in the lead role.
“He might just be the coolest person I know,” Fugo said.
“I think we can both agree to that,” I replied. I turned to Giorno just to see what bashfulness looked like on him only to stop short.
Giorno was preening. His smile had a tilt to it, toeing the line from the perfect politeness he showed to actual joy. He took Fugo's compliment as a given, and not a rare treasure that I myself had to work hard for.
“Only because you were a brilliant partner to work with,” Giorno said and his cheeks got a pink tint to them, his smile turning small and shy. It's the same kind of look I always wanted to put on his face. It's a look he wore now as he gazed at Giorno with awe.
Something tasted bitter on my tongue.
It took a while for it to disappear, and all it took was seeing Fugo’s figure get smaller on the docks of San Maggiore.
Six months later, that bitter taste resurfaced as I looked down at Fugo’s prone figure in a hospital in Syracuse.
“How the hell did Giorno expect you to get to the restaurant?” I asked aloud, cringing as he watched each breath that Fugo pulled, like he was fighting for each one. With each rattling breath and wet cough that fell from Fugo's lips, the animosity I felt for my teammate slowly evaporated, leaving behind pity. And perhaps, relief that at least one member from my team was still alive.
Barely anyway. Not until Giorno can heal him.
“Come on, off we go.” I reached over and grabbed Fugo around the waist, pulling until he could hoist him up against his hips. Fugo groaned. “I know. It hurts, but I need to get you to Giorno so you could feel better. I'm sorry.” Mista I maneuvered him to sit in the wheelchair for a moment, my breath caught a whiff of the familiar scent of Fugo's strawberry-scented shampoo. It reminded me of the old safehouse and fighting for bathroom space between Fugo and Narancia at 9am in the morning. I bowed his head against Fugo’s own, breathing him in and listening to his wheezing breaths. “I'm really sorry, Fugo. I'm not leaving you again, I swear.”
I ended up wheeling Fugo to the private room Giorno booked, instructions be damned. Giorno looked displeased, but that soon disappeared when he took in the state Fugo was in. Even from across the room, I can see his breath caught.
“I didn't think he'd look this bad.”
“Guess you don't know everything, huh?” I snapped, unable to stop the anger leaking through my voice. Giorno's eyes snapped towards me, narrowed into slits. “I swiped his patient chart. Broken ribs, punctured lung, the virus ate away part of his throat and most of his left cheek. You've got to give it to our Fugo, he was determined to die for the mission we gave him.”
“That would not be ideal,” Giorno said. He slipped out of his chair.
“Just say you care about him like a normal person,” I said, pushing Fugo's wheelchair towards him. As much as I loved Giorno, now wasn't the time. Fugo's gotten quiet, his breaths whisper-thin.
Then, the wheelchair caught on a loose tile. Fugo started to tip forward. I reached out but I'm too slow.
But Giorno got there in time. Fugo landed safely in his arms and Golden Experience was out before I could even blink. Giorno maneuvered Fugo to lay down on the floor, placing his head on his lap and laying his hand on his forehead. Fugo's breathing was shallow, his face somehow even paler than at the hospital.
“He couldn't even walk on his own and you wanted him to drag himself out of the hospital to get to you. That's seriously fucked up Giorno, what did you want Purple Haze to push him on the wheelchair? You could have just gone to him yourself, but Don Passione really wanted to make a power play and—”
“You can berate me later, Mista,” Giorno said sharply. “Come and help me. Hold Fugo's hand.”
“What?”
“Fugo has never been healed by Gold Experience before. It's going to be a new sensation for him. You know full well how terrible it could be. Hold his hand, anchor him, let him know it's going to be okay.”
I shove the wheelchair aside, got down to my knees, and held Fugo's clammy hand in my own. Gold Experience's hand passed through Giorno's own with a golden glow to it and I held on to Fugo as tight as I could.
It's agonizing.
The moment the skin of his cheek began to stitch itself close, Fugo started screaming and thrashing. All I could do was hold him steady as Giorno worked, and even then I could still feel Fugo's entire body shivering from the effort. It was one thing to experience it for myself, when I've gotten so used to it, but it was another thing to see Fugo go through that same pain. That white-hot burst of energy in your veins, your body fighting against a foreign object, and getting forced to submission. Even Giorno looked pained like he'd rather not have to do this all, anything but subject Fugo to this torture.
Then, the trembling began to subside as Fugo's body began to heal. His breathing grew steady, the golden glow began to fade. The gauze on his cheek peeled away to reveal a pale white scar, jagged like lightning, matching the ones littered on my stomach and that circled both of Giorno's wrists. Gold Experience folded back into Giorno neatly.
We watched as Fugo came back to himself bit by bit. I turned to Giorno. “I'm sorry. For what I said.”
“You're forgiven,” Giorno said. He smoothed a hand over Fugo's forehead, brushing his sweaty bangs off his face. “You were only speaking out of concern for Fugo's welfare. I would have done the same. Minus the yelling.”
I chuckled. I still haven't let go of Fugo's hand. Giorno didn't look like he was letting go either. So both of us simply stayed and waited for Fugo to wake up so we could welcome him back.
“Funny how you have the plague as a Stand but you're the one avoiding me.” Fugo jumped when I finally cornered him in the villa's library because of course he'd make himself at home in the one place I would never venture out to. It's been three months since Fugo came back and he spent most of it avoiding me. There's still meetings of course—Giorno made Fugo consigliere at the get-go which still surprised him sometimes—and the occasional team lunch, but I've never actually gotten Fugo alone these days.
He looked better with every passing day—more color on his skin, more confidence in the way he held himself, clothes that actually fit well—but he was still paper-thin. Like a gust of wind could knock him down.
“Sorry,” he muttered. His voice got raspier and deeper, coupled with the soft tone, it felt like talking to an entirely different person. “I'll get out of your way.”
“Out of my way? I went looking for you, man! Should have known you'd just be at the library. It was this, or the ballroom with the piano, or the nearest bakery that sold cake.” That got a smile out of Fugo and I held on to that with everything I got. “How come you're avoiding me?”
“I didn't want any trouble. Giorno suggested I give you some space.”
“Fuck Giorno's suggestion.”
“Language—” Fugo cut himself off. I wanted him to get mad and scold me for cursing. At least he'd sound like him again. Fugo never held back on voicing his opinions. I need to work on that with him. “You should treat Giorno with a bit more respect.”
“I normally do, but it's hard to think seriously of him once you've heard him throw a fit over roast chicken.” Fugo pursed his lips, a tell-tale sign that he's holding himself back from laughing.
“I don't think you of all people should judge Giorno's eating habits. You have the appetite of a child.”
“Hey! I'll have you know I've been refining my palate” An idea struck me then as I glanced at Fugo's small waist. “In fact, why don't you get lunch with me? It will be my treat.”
“I'd love to,” Fugo replied and externally I was just smiling but internally the Sex Pistols were all doing a victory dance in my head. “Let me give Giorno a heads up first though.”
The dancing stopped. “Why's that?”
“He usually seeks me out to get lunch with me. I'll just let him know I'm heading out.”
Ah. No wonder he couldn't find Fugo most days.
“Why don't you let me handle that?” I threw an arm around his shoulders and started to drag him out of the library. “I'll send a Sex Pistol, so you don't have to walk all the way to the office.”
“Really? If it's not a bother to you.”
“Not at all. So what are you in the mood for? I know this great Mediterranean place that just opened—”
I make sure the Sex Pistols inform Giorno only when we're out the door.
Giorno was hosting a ball.
“It's a publicity thing,” he explained as we sat around the tailor's where we're getting measured for suits. Fugo's right up on the platform, looking through a selection of ties that the tailor is holding up. “Diavolo built a reputation of being such a private individual that it sowed doubts in his followers. I want to do the opposite. I need the famiglia to know they can trust me.”
“Make sure they know who’s in charge, I get that,” I comment. Fugo ended up picking a pink tie to contrast heavily with the dark green pinstripe suit he chose. Giorno smiled lightly at the choice. “But did you really need to get a ten-piece orchestra?”
“I wanted to show off our resources. Plus, it would be good to have live music for dancing.”
I stared at Giorno. “You're dancing at that thing?”
“We're dancing,” Giorno corrected. “It would be fun.”
“I don't know how to.” Fugo said something to the tailor who looked through the racks of clothes and emerged with a dark blue waistcoat. It's my turn to smile. “But Fugo does.”
Giorno's eyes glimmered. “Does he now?”
“Like you didn't already know that,” I said, elbowing him in the gut. “So is the plan to get private dancing lessons with him?” Giorno fluttered his lashes. “You sly dog.”
“As if you weren't planning the same thing.”
Before I could answer that, Fugo cleared his throat. It's embarrassing how fast me and Giorno turn to look at him.
Fugo looked gorgeous. The dark colors of the suit complimented his fair skin well and set off the deep red of his eyes. The waist coat was cinched tightly, showing off his slim waist. “So? Does it look okay?”
“You look magnificent,” Giorno said and Fugo's cheeks turned the same color as the tie.
“Thank you, Giogio.” He fiddled with the hem of the pants, stopping only when the tailor scolded him. “It's nice but…”
“You want to cut holes in it, don't you?” I asked and the tailor looked aghast at the suggestion. But Fugo? He perked right up.
“Just small ones, I want to look tasteful for a formal party. Maybe just three on either side of my thighs.”
I admit, my imagination took the best of me that I couldn't respond for a while. My only consolation was that Giorno looked as fervent as I did.
Thinking back at it now, I wished Giorno and I had the sense to talk Fugo out of attending the ball. Everyone was looking at him. Of course, they looked at Giorno since he's the Don and by extension I'm the bodyguard trailing behind him, but all those looks had a level of politeness to them. There was nothing polite about the way they stared at Fugo and the glimpses of his pale, unmarked thighs through his suit, or even the lines of his forearms from the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt.
I got them, I really did. Fugo looked more than lovely tonight, ravishing even, but there was no way I was sharing him with everyone else in the room.
“Are you sure you aren't cold?” I heard Giorno ask. He looked ready to throw his faux fur coat to cover Fugo's shoulders.
“Hm? I'm actually pretty comfortable,” Fugo said. He flexed his arms. I'm pretty sure I heard a swoon from our Intelligence Squad. “It fits me well and it's easy to move in just in case a fight breaks out.”
“Trust you to be the practical sort even in a ball,” I said. Giorno's orchestra began to play, I recognize it as one of the waltz pieces that Fugo played during our lessons.
(Which, by the way, actually sucked ass. I thought Fugo would be more loose when it came to dance lessons, but Fugo is just as ruthless with it as his math lessons to Narancia. He'd actually snapped at Giorno for messing up a sequence multiple times, which would be funny if the same thing didn't happen to me. By the end of the week, I had learned how to waltz and that Fugo knew how to curse in seven different languages.)
Giorno turned to Fugo, with a smile on his face and a hand held out, but I stepped on his shoes. “Ow.” Giorno glared at me, his elbow digging into my side. I smiled down at my dearest friend and tugged lightly at his braid. Fugo looked unaware, eyes closed as he listened to the music. Giorno's eyes flashed, Gold Experience simmering under the surface. The Sex Pistols were restless in the revolver I kept down my pants, clamoring for a fight.
“Excuse me, signore?”
Giorno and I stopped our bickering, finally noticing that the Capo of the Intelligence Squad had come up to us. One with sandy red hair, blue eyes, and dots of freckles on his cheeks that were set off by his navy blue suit. He was fidgeting with his hands, bowing lightly to Giorno while stealing glances of Fugo.
“Aletto, how do you do?” Giorno asked, a perfectly polite mask back in place. He shook hands with Aletto. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Y-yes. I am. It is quite the party,” Aletto replied. “Actually, I was wondering if I could ask for Signore Fugo for a dance?”
Fugo finally snapped his attention away from the music to level Aletto with a gaze that would make normal men cower. To his credit, Aletto didn't flinch. He looked hopeful as he held a trembling hand out to Fugo.
I was about ready to save this poor kid from a cold rejection, but to my surprise Fugo nodded. “Alright. Do you know how to waltz?” He laid his hand in Aletto's and I swore I could see steam escaping his ears.
I couldn't hear what Aletto's response was. My ears were filled with static as I watched him lead Fugo to the dance floor like I planned to. Fugo guided Aletto's hand on his waist and I grit my teeth.
“Calm down, Mista.”
“I should say the same to you.” Giorno rarely let his anger show on his face or his body language, but his tone has that threatening edge to it that promised a swift revenge.
Giorno hummed. “I hear the currents of the Tyrrhenian sea are particularly unforgivable these days.”
“Ah, but finding another Capo would double Fugo's workload.”
“We can't have that.” We watched as Aletto twirled Fugo under his arm, smiling down at him with an enamored look in his eyes. I can't even fault him for it. “Perhaps a temporary reassignment in a foreign country.”
I barked a laugh, nudging Giorno's shoulders. “Sometimes I can't tell if you're joking or if you're serious, Giorno.”
Giorno leaned back against me. “I never joke.” He tugged at my sleeves. “Come dance with me. We can't let Fugo's efforts go to waste.”
I grinned, bowing with a flourish and offering my hand up to Giorno. He rolled his eyes at me, but took my hand all the same.
Dancing with Giorno was fun. He was a quick study under Fugo's tutelage, executing each move to the beat and pulling me along with him. I think he was always meant for this sort of life, dressing in fancy suits, hosting grand balls, and ordering an orchestra, a life of grandeur and power. But, as I twirled him around and he grinned up at me, I can't help but remember that earnest boy who always pushed me to move forward.
Perhaps that's why, unlike Aletta, I don't mind Giorno's advances towards Fugo. I liked being Giorno's friend, and I'm pretty sure Giorno liked being my friend too. At his core, Giorno was kind and sweet. If there was another person I could trust with Fugo's heart, it would be Giorno.
The thing is, when it came down to it, I would give Giorno anything he wanted. He was my dear friend, my savior, and my beloved boss. His happiness was important to me and I'd give up anything for that.
Unfortunately, Pannacotta Fugo was the one thing I can't surrender to him.
As the last notes of the waltz faded, our eyes met. At once, we turned to Fugo across the room. Aletto was bowing profusely and Fugo was smiling lightly before he started walking away. I met Giorno’s gaze again, tilt my head up in challenge, and he simply smirked.
Both of us make a beeline towards Fugo who's already sat down at the main table for the Don’s inner circle next to Sheila E. She raised a brow at me and Giorno practically tripping each other to get to them.
“I'm glad neither of you stepped on each other's toes,” Fugo teased.
“Of course, what do you take us for Fugetto? We wouldn't waste your hard work like that,” I said. “In fact, how about a demonstration? Wanna dance?”
“I'm done for the night,” Fugo said as he tugged his tie loose. “Sheila said I had to get at least one dance in tonight and I did just that.”
“If I didn't tell you to, you would have just sat all by yourself for the whole party,” Sheila said.
“That's exactly what I plan to do starting now.”
Well fuck. I shared a glance with Giorno and both of us turned away from Fugo and Sheila.
“You should plan another ball,” I whispered to him.
“Mm-hmm.”
For Polanereff's birthday, he wanted to ride a gondola down the Grand Canal.
“I've never been,” he explained, perched on top of Coco Jumbo. “I heard the view is very beautiful this time of year. Some sun will be good for all of us. I cannot think of a better way to spend my afternoon.”
Giorno and I had always been very soft on Polnareff. We owed the man a lot for his help in defeating Diavolo and for sticking around to help us build Passione. It was easy enough for Giorno to book us two gondolas for our group the entire afternoon, with plans to meet at a restaurant for dinner, but I should have known Giorno didn't make things simple.
“Only two boats left, one with a gondolier and one that we have to row on our own,” Giorno announced. “Of course, Mr. Polnareff should be the one with the gondolier, since it's his birthday and all.”
“Dibs,” Trish immediately called out. She grabbed Coco Jumbo's carrier and started heading towards the bigger boat.
“Why don't you go with them, Mista?” Giorno asked. “Me and Fugo can grab the other boat.”
I smiled down at Giorno, trying to hold back my annoyance. “I should stick with you, boss. Seeing as I'm your bodyguard and all.”
“I don't mind. I'll be fine with Fugo's company. You should join Trish.”
“There's going to be four people if I join them,” I explained. “I insist.”
“There's only three people. Trish, Polnareff, the boatman—”
“I'm counting the tortoise.”
“I wouldn't want you to have to row for us.”
“Two pairs of arms are better than one, isn't it? You can just help me row.”
“At this rate, I'll row the boat myself,” Fugo called out. He's already in the empty boat, under the parasol Trish had gifted him for his birthday. He always did burn easily. “If you don't get in soon, I'm leaving you.”
I looked at Giorno, who was definitely not going to budge, and gestured to the boat. “After you, boss.” Giorno huffed and began to descend on the boat. I followed him quickly, just in case he was thinking of leaving me behind.
Before Fugo could grab an oar, I snatched it away from him and Giorno did the same with the other one.
“Why don't you just lean back and enjoy the sun, Panna?” I offered. “Let us do the handling.”
“Do you even know how to steer a boat?”
“How different is it from driving a car?” Giorno said. We shared a look and decided not to tell Fugo about the last time we drove a car in Venice.
I pushed the sleeves of my shirt up to my elbows and Fugo glanced at me, before turning his head away. His cheeks were a little pink and I couldn't help but grin. Not even Giorno's oar digging into my side could deter me.
We were able to keep up with Polnareff's and Trish's boat easily enough. Trish was looking at us weirdly—me and Giorno knocked shoulders as we rowed, and Fugo just relaxing under his parasol. I could feel her rolling her eyes at us.
Soon enough we emerged into more open water. Polnareff was looking in awe at the rows of colorful buildings with their old brick facades against a vast blue sky and the sunlight sparkling in the water. Across us, Fugo had his head tipped back to look at the sky. Sunlight danced across his skin, giving it an amber hue, illuminating his hair like a halo. He looked radiant.
I could feel my hold on the oar falter. It's only when the boat came to a full stop that I realized Giorno’s rowing faltered too.
Fugo opened his eyes and stared at us. He looked confused, but beneath that was a warm fondness that made him look softer. “Why are we stopping?”
I witnessed a rare sight. Giorno Giovanna, speechless.
“Just needed a break, s'all,” I replied, nudging Giorno from his stupor. “Having fun?”
Fugo hummed, stretching his neck. “I'd rather be inside, but it isn't too bad. I think Trish and Polnareff are getting ahead of us though. Maybe we should—hey!”
Another boat rams into us. The gondolier apologizes, but doesn't stop rowing as a group of tourists sporadically took pictures. Our boat was smaller so the force of our boats brushing together makes us wobble, but by the time they get out of range, Fugo loses his grip of his parasol and it falls in the water.
I barely had time to think but the next thing I know, Giorno was no longer by my side and there was a splash on the other side of the boat.
“Giogio!” Fugo and I peer over the edge of the boat just in time to see Giorno resurface from the water, with Fugo's parasol in hand. I've got to hand it to him, that shit was romantic as fuck. Especially when his victory rolls have come undone, long blonde bangs sticking against his forehead and his white silk shirt translucent from the water. This was some Mr. Darcy shit here. “Get back here! It's winter, it's freezing!”
Giorno dropped the parasol back in the boat. “I didn't want you to lose it. It's important to you.”
“Well yeah, but I'm more worried about you catching a cold.”
I stepped on the edge of the boat and extended my hand out to Giorno. “Come on, Romeo. You can borrow my shirt.”
Giorno gripped my hand in his and I started pulling him back up on the boat.
Something must be very unlucky about this day, because wouldn't you know it, a second boat rammed into ours and my foot slipped over the edge.
The water was shockingly cold. I resurface with a gasp, ice running through my veins. This was worse than White Album!
Fugo was yelling, cursing out the boat, the boatman and the tourists. He took one long look at them, then switched to cursing in English, shaking the oar at them for emphasis.
I turned to Giorno, who’s watching Fugo curse out a bunch of offended tourists with an adoring gaze.
“I don't think I can lend you my shirt anymore.”
“It's fine.” Giorno tilted his head. “Did you know Fugo can curse in English?”
“He knows how to curse in seven languages,” I said proudly. I hear a thump and more screaming in English. “Did he throw the oar at them?”
“Yes, he did.”
“At least we have another one?”
Another thump. More screaming.
“We are officially oar-less, Mista,” Giorno said.
“Well, shit. How are we getting to the restaurant now? Do we just swim for it?”
Giorno thought about it for a moment. “We can't leave Fugo here.”
“Of course not.” I looked towards the nearest dock. It was maybe fifty feet away. “Trish is never going to let us live this down.”
Trish was laughing when we got to the dock. What a sight we made. Me on one side of the boat and Giorno on the other side, pulling it forward with one hand and paddling with the other. Fugo sat in the boat, perfectly dry and proper, looking very much like royalty on a palanquin.
It was the most terrible boat ride of all boat rides. We had to cancel our dinner reservation (Me and Giorno felt awful about it, but Polnareff just laughed and said it was a fun afternoon for him) and just order in.
But, Fugo made sure the fireplace was roaring when we got back to headquarters. He brought us a change of clothes, blankets, and warm mugs of tea. He fussed over Giorno's ruined hair and my cold hands, and he made sure we were well taken care of.
A little dip in the Grand Canal was worth it just for this.
Fugo asked me out to dinner.
I almost couldn't believe it. Our shy, emotionally constipated Fugo took the initiative. I always knew it would be up to me to move things forward since Fugo has been oblivious to my feelings so far. I never expected he'd be the one to corner me one fine afternoon after a meeting to ask if I'd be free for dinner at Libeccio on Friday evening. Of course, I said yes! Are you kidding? Who would turn down an opportunity for some alone time with the object of his affections?
I was determined to sweep Fugo off his feet and give him the best night of his life. I even showered for the occasion, scrubbed my skin smooth, used the cologne Trish had gifted me for my birthday, and wore my best outfit—zebra printed pants, a black silky dress shirt that’s borderline translucent with the top buttons undone, and a gold chain around my neck. I'd foregone my hat just for the night and mussed up my curls just a bit, since Fugo said he always liked me with my hair down.
It was all set. I was looking my best, feeling my best, all I had to do was get the boy.
I arrived at Libeccio with high spirits. The hostess led me to the private room we always frequented and I stepped inside with the widest smile—
Only to see Giorno at the lone table with a bouquet of flowers in his hands.
For a minute, all we could do was stare at each other. Giorno's eyes are wide, dusted with faint gold eyeshadow. He's dressed rather flashily in a two-piece white suit with shiny, gold embroidered flowers. Much like myself, his hair was also loose and falling in waves over his shoulders. He looked gorgeous. But that was beside the point.
“What are you doing here, Mista?” he asked.
“I could ask you the same thing. I was expecting a different blond company tonight,” I said, taking a seat across from him. I noticed there were three seats at the table. “Fugo asked me to dinner.”
Giorno looked at the third chair as if noticing it for the first time. “He asked me to dinner too.”
I let that sink in between us. “Giogio?”
“Yes, Guido?”
“I think Fugo figured us out.”
“Gee, you think so?”
I kicked Giorno under the table, but he kicked me right back. The Sex Pistols popped out of Giorno's perfectly curated bouquet, hands already tugging at the petals. I felt Gold Experience sidle up against my back, my necklace started wriggling around my neck.
“Can't leave you two alone for five minutes, can I?”
Our gazes snapped towards the doorway, like two children getting caught fighting. Fugo looks unimpressed, and normally the look on his face would make me feel shameful, but the only thing running through my mind was wow.
Fugo was dressed in a deep purple suit with a faint diamond pattern to it. His hair was swept back away from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his jaw and the lightning-shape scar on his cheek. The holes of his suit revealed smooth pale skin on his shoulders, his elbows, a long strip on his thighs, and let's just say my mind began to wander off by that point.
Fugo sat down between us. His back was ramrod straight, his hands folded with the fingers interlocked. He looked like he was about to take us to court.
“Fugo, dear, I was under the impression we were having dinner,” Giorno said. Our Stands have folded back into our bodies, but there’s a line of tension in Giorno's brows that I recognized. He, too, was as uncertain as I was.
“We will,” Fugo said cryptically. “But before that, I wanted to talk to you two because frankly, this is getting ridiculous.”
“What are you saying, Fugo?” I asked. Fugo shot both of us a look that painfully reminded me of Bruno. May he rest in peace.
He raised a hand with his pinky sticking out. There were silver rings on his fingers that glinted sharply under the light. “One, you had the Capo of our Intelligence Squad reassigned to Campana for a good four weeks.” I shot a look at Giorno who seemed to shrink in his seat as Fugo raised his ring finger. “Two, you've been so obvious with your bickering that I have capos approaching me with concerns of Passione's stability.” Rather pointedly, Fugo raised his middle finger. “Three, Trish, Sheila, and Polnareff have tried giving me love advice on separate occasions and it's getting disruptive. Murolo is running a betting pool on which one of you was going to ask me out first.”
Fugo tried to raise another finger but I grabbed his hand. “Please don't.” Fugo took a deep, deep breath. He reached out to grab Giorno's hand with his other one. I swear, I heard Giorno's breath hitch at the touch.
“This needs to stop.” Dread fills my stomach, cold and heavy. Giorno's face looked like someone told him he couldn't have sweets anymore. Then, Fugo's face softened. “I love you. Both of you. Truly. Immensely. Equally. There's no other people in the world who I would entrust my heart to except you two.”
I remembered the ball, about thinking Giorno was the only other person I would entrust Fugo's heart to, but to hear Fugo share the same feelings about me was mind-blowing. Life-altering. The kind of statement that I would replay in my mind forever and ever.
Fugo continued talking, like he didn't just give me and Giorno the revelation of a lifetime. “So I need both of you to understand that I won't let this be a competition. I'm never going to make a choice between the two of you. I know it's selfish to ask, but if you'll have me, I'd like to have both of you, if that’s alright?” He looked hopeful, looking between me and Giorno, and squeezing our hands tightly.
I shared a look with Giorno. After years of friendship, of battles faced with backs pressed together, and seeing each other at our lowest, I knew that we were always on the same page.
This was no exception.