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beacon (read on ao3?)
pannacotta fugo / guido mista; implied pannacotta fugo / guido mista / giorno giovanna
rated T; 1.8k. spoilers through the end of p5 + slight allusions to (but no spoilers for) events of purple haze feedback. takes place during some unspecified time after phf.
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“You two,” Fugo rasped out, interrupting him. His voice went hoarse and he started to taste iron, sharp on the tip of his tongue. He coughed, weakly, blood welling up at the corners of his lips. “You and Giorno — you’re all I have left.”
Fugo saw the blow coming towards Mista’s back, and he was moving before he could stop to think.
His Stand materialized, throwing itself forward to absorb the punch, and Fugo watched, detached, as the enemy Stand’s arm tore its way through Purple Haze’s torso.
His legs shuddered and collapsed under him, and Fugo watched as his Stand mirrored him, clutching at its midsection and twitching like a crushed bug. Mista whirled around with a yell of Fugo’s name, Sex Pistols yelping in the background as he fired off a volley of bullets. Fugo sucked in a relieved breath as he watched the would-be assassin drop to the ground, neat exit wounds drilled through the center of his forehead.
“You fuckin’ dumbass,” Mista said, shock seeping into his voice as he ran over to Fugo, kneeling in front of him. “What did you do that for?”
“Better me than you,” Fugo replied, wincing. He glanced down at the damage, eyes widening at the gash in his torso that threatened to tear him in two. As if on cue, the pain hit him all at once, and he choked on a scream, head thumping back against the wall he’d fallen against. Fugo slammed a hand down over the wound with a hiss, futilely trying to staunch the flow of blood.
“No way,” Mista breathed, voice tinged with horror. “You hate me, remember? You’re not gonna die for me, Fugo, not today.” Mista’s hands clenched into tight fists at his sides and he shook his head, eyes laced with confusion. “Why would you even —”
“You two,” Fugo rasped out, interrupting him. His voice went hoarse and he started to taste iron, sharp on the tip of his tongue. He coughed, weakly, blood welling up at the corners of his lips. “You and Giorno — you’re all I have left. Can’t lose another —” Another person I care about. His vision blurred, Mista’s outline doubling and swimming in a way that made Fugo sick. Pain wracked his body, sharp and overwhelming.
“Fugo, you bastard,” Mista growled, shaking him. Fugo stifled a cry at the movement as it jostled his wounds, blood pooling out sluggishly behind his fingers. “You don’t get to say shit like that and then die on me, got it? Giorno’s comin’, just — just hold on, okay?”
“It’s not so bad,” Fugo said. The pain was ebbing out, replaced by a strange sense of calm and a bone-deep weariness. “But I’m damn tired, Mista. I think this is it.”
“Fugo,” Mista hissed. “If you die on me right now, I’m gonna fucking hunt you down in the goddamn afterlife and kill you again, you hear?” Fugo smiled faintly at the threat.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he murmured. Mista yelled something, frustrated and scared, but Fugo’s hearing was going fuzzy, ears ringing as the world started to darken and wobble before his eyes.
It’s better this way, he wanted to say. Buccellati, Abbacchio, Narancia — they’re all waiting on me. I should have died with them to begin with. I’m a dead man walking, no matter how you look at it.
“Listen,” Fugo said. It was getting harder to breathe, he noted, with a sense of sick fascination. “Got something to tell you. Mista. Remember — at that restaurant, what you asked me?”
(Memories floated up to the surface — Mista’s voice, derisive and dismissive, his eyes gleaming with a hint of something like disgust as he’d pulled Fugo aside.
“Listen, it’s none of my business, but — are you queer for Giorno or something?”)
“Yeah,” Mista urged. His voice seemed small and suddenly afraid. “Yeah, I remember.”
“It’s — not just Giorno,” Fugo grit out, thoughts swimming in his head. I always want what I can’t have. It was difficult to arrange his words coherently through the pain and the weight that pushed heavy on his chest, his ribs. Damn it, he thought, read between the lines. Mista’s eyes widened, and Fugo relaxed, eyes fluttering shut. It’s done.
“Fugo, the fuck are you saying?” Mista’s voice took on a strange, pleading tone, his arms tensing around Fugo’s shoulders. “Hey — if you got something to say, tell me later, after we get out of this.”
“Not gonna make it,” Fugo insisted, and Mista froze, a full-body reaction, before he started to run his mouth almost desperately.
“Fugo, c’mon — you’re gonna be okay, Giorno’s gonna patch you up — Fugo, please, we need you —”
Mista’s voice started to fade out, and Fugo sighed as he slipped into unconsciousness.
.
Fugo opened his eyes to unfamiliar sheets, breath shuddering out of him in a rush as he clutched, hard at the sheets. He was in a room he’d seen before, somewhere in the mansion Giorno had repurposed to serve as the de facto base of Passione operations in Naples. Perhaps more importantly, he wasn’t dead. Fugo stared up at the ceiling, eyes glaring blankly at the peeling drywall, before an inhale at his side caught his attention.
“Hey,” a familiar voice called, cautious, and Fugo turned to meet Mista’s gaze. He was surprised — had Mista been waiting by his bedside the entire time? I did save his life, I guess. He tried to think of something appropriate to say, but came up empty.
“I’m not dead,” Fugo said, finally. He ran hands over his own torso, marveling at the smooth, unbroken skin beneath his fingers. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or if he was disappointed.
“Yeah. Giorno got to you in time.” Fugo closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. It was easier to speak his mind when he was on the verge of death. Living, and dealing with the aftermath — that was the hard part.
“Fugo,” Mista said. His voice was hesitant, unsure — a far cry from his usual tone. “I, uh. I’m not good at this kind of thing, you know that, but —”
“I don’t need your pity,” Fugo muttered, flinching when he felt a hand encircle his wrist. “What are you doing?”
“It’s not — listen, okay? I thought you fuckin’ hated my guts, man, and then you pull something like that, and you — just, god, Fugo, you pull something like that and then you tell me that —”
“Don’t,” Fugo said, eyes fluttering open. “Just forget it —”
“Damn it, let me finish!” Mista’s hand tightened around Fugo’s wrist, and Fugo suppressed a hiss of pain, quieting. “Listen. You mean a lot, to Giorno. And, I, uh —”
Mista cut himself off, flushing and looking away with a soft curse.
“Like you said, it’s — not just Giorno,” Mista said, quickly, unwilling to meet Fugo’s eyes. You mean a lot to me, Fugo translated, warmth hesitantly making its way into his chest to curl heady and bright under his ribs. He pushed it away, swallowing it down. “Shit, dude, it sounded so much smoother when you said it.”
“What are you trying to say?” Fugo asked, bluntly. Mista made a frustrated noise, raising his free hand to tug at the hem of his hat nervously.
“I’m tryin’ to say that you’re not alone, Fugo, no matter what kind of bullshit you seem to spout to yourself in your own mind.” His fingers relaxed their grip around Fugo’s arm, thumb tracing a slow path across the back of Fugo’s hand. “We’ll figure it out, the three of us.”
Fugo felt Mista’s words rattle through him like a blow. The three of us. He wanted it, wanted it so bad it hurt, sometimes. But Fugo knew better than to let himself get caught up in false hope, false dreams.
“Holy shit,” Mista muttered, “you’re doing it again.” Fugo let out a questioning grunt. “That thing, where you get caught up in what you assume what other people are tryin’ to say before they can even explain themselves.”
Mista sighed. “For such a smart son of a bitch, you really make this shit too difficult, y’know that?” He shifted, discomfited by Fugo’s silence. “It’s partially my fault, I guess. After the shit with Trish, and — well. Giorno believed in you, the whole time. I was too harsh, and that’s on me. I wanted someone to blame, y’know, for —”
For Buccellati. For Abbacchio. For Narancia. The names, unspoken, settled heavily in the air between them, familiar weights in the pit of Fugo’s stomach.
“But,” Mista said, tone steely. “I was wrong, alright? It’s not your damn fault, Fugo. None of it was. And if you took your head out of your ass for one goddamn second, you’d see that. I didn’t — I didn’t ask to join Passione, y’know? None of us did, really, except Giorno, I guess. I did it cause I didn’t have anywhere else to go — all of us did. But with Giorno, and you — it’s a good thing we got going here, I guess. For the first time, I want to stay. And that’s — okay, I guess, is what I’m trying to say. It’s a good thing we got going here, and it’s okay to want that.”
A pause.
“Jesus, Fugo, say something.”
Fugo swallowed, thickly, eyes fixed on the ceiling above him. He wasn’t going to cry, not now, not in front of Mista (ever, if he could help it) — but the words picked at something sharp and broken in his chest, something he’d been covering up with missions and danger and adrenaline. With Giorno, and you, Mista had said. The three of us. It felt — right. What am I supposed to say to something like that?
“You and Giorno, you don’t want —” Fugo said, the words slipping out. You don’t want me, Fugo finished, in his head. A coward, who can barely control his own Stand.
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what I want,” Mista said, sharply. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“Yeah,” Fugo whispered, finding his voice. “Yeah, maybe.”
Mista’s hand slid down Fugo’s arm, settling tentatively across the back of his hand as Mista leaned down, pressing hesitant lips to Fugo’s temple as his other hand brushed messy bangs out of Fugo’s face. He smelled like gunpowder and sweat and blood, familiar and grounding, and Fugo’s breath stuttered, eyes closing beneath the touch.
“I want you, alright?” Mista said. “Fuck it, I — I wanna give this thing a try, whatever it is. And it’s okay to admit that you want it too, damn it. It’s weird, watching you beat yourself up over shit like this.”
“Okay,” Fugo said, his voice thin, tenuous. “Yeah. Fuck, Mista.”
I want you. Fugo still didn’t believe it, not really, but he’d take what he could get, turning minutely into the touch.
“Damn,” Mista groaned, shifting forward and muffling his voice in Fugo’s shoulder. “We suck at this, huh?”
Fugo held back an undignified snort, huffing amusedly before averting his eyes and speaking, voice soft. “Yeah. We really do. But — we’ll figure it out.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Mista echoed, and something like hope bloomed bright in Fugo’s chest.
