Chapter Text
There are worse places to fall asleep. Though Fugo doubted many could match the aching stiffness of the hardwood floor convincing him it made an adequate bed for an impromptu nap. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. It just happened. The events of the past few days had finally caught up to him in a moment of calm and yanked the rug out from underneath him like an unwanted houseguest. Leaving the teen that was scarcely old enough to call himself such, strung out on the floor like it was the comfiest bed in a five star hotel.
The constant flux of highs and lows tormenting his already fragile emotional state had finally wrung him dry like a wet towel that had been squeezed and twisted until all the water had been forced out. Everything had been so exhausting. Pitiful fumes running for nearly a decade finally puttering out and taking the sparking embers with it. He wanted to go back to sleep. Forever sounded beautiful but it was impolite to pass away on someone else’s floor.
Somehow, Fugo had managed to be lulled to asleep by the sound of a door slamming above his room that rattled the walls, followed by someone yelling as another laughed way too loud for being indoors and the stomping turned into running as two people in quick succession flew past his room. The lead of the duo had been laughing so hard it edged into a wheeze while the other screamed various profanities at a pitch that made Fugo’s own throat hurt in sympathy.
Honestly, it was impressive he managed to sleep through that at all. He was notoriously known as a very light sleeper and the anxiety of being in a new place should have woken him up multiple times regardless of how short a nap it had been. Surely he hadn’t been that exhausted, right?
The longer he laid there, unmoving and staring up at the plastered ceiling illuminated only by faint moonlight streaming in from the window beside the bookcase, the more he realized how uncomfortable and stiff tailored clothes got when they were forced to bunch and stick to his skin. Shifting made it worse as the fabric pulled on places where it had wrinkled. It didn’t help that the warmth of his body had seeped into the once blissfully cool floorboard, making it edge on the side of too warm to be pleasant. If he wasn’t regretting sleeping on the floor now, he was definitely regretting not changing first.
With a huff that was more annoyed than anything, he got up to fumbling in the darkness for his bag. Ignoring the lamp perched passively on the bedside table in favor for digging blindly for a proper change of clothes and shortly producing a casual pair of pants he knew was comfortable with a turtleneck sweater. Everything ended up tossed on the bed with his undergarments hidden from view and he was glad to get out of the stuffy uniform his parents made him wear for university.
The room got significantly colder without the barrier of fabric and the idea of shivering until he got used to it wasn’t appealing nor ideal. Red lines creased over his pale skin, a tried and true marker of a much needed nap. For hygienic purposes, he changed his underwear and socks too. The icky, almost sticky feeling of sweat was a treat to separate from himself.
Shoving everything back into his bag, Fugo stood there at the side of the bed. Staring aimlessly down at the shadowed embroidery of flowers sprawled and curling over the fabric of the blanket. The faint trickle of moonlight could only illuminate so much as he looked around. Frowning at the deep shadows and harsh angles of the bookcase filled with various literature. Worn titles sat unreadable on sturdy wooden beds. Even the painting hanging with the shelf above his bed was obscured by darkness.
If he remembered right, it was a bright sunflower with wide open petals. Something simple and well known. Easy for one to get their hands on at any store, secondhand or not.
The room was too small.
A little, distorted voice that sounded too much like his own gurgled as the spacious walls suddenly seemed much too close for comfort. Cautiously, Fugo brushed against Purple Haze’s presence, strangely comforted by how it gently brushed back. A bone deep ease that seep into the fibers of his muscles. A reassurance that he was safe and that it wouldn’t leave him.
Fugo smiled, a small thing but a smile nonetheless. The content harmonization with his soul helped lift the heavy weight and burdens chipping patiently at the fissures that cracked into fractures crumbling underneath their own fragile makeshift patches trying to keep themselves together and not give out underneath the weight of expectations. Somehow, deep down, he knew Purple Haze was preening. Delighted at doing something that made its user happy instead of the distressed anxiety that had become a constant cloud full of water ready to rain down on their heads.
Then like all good things in his life, it didn’t last long.
The shimmer of purple and white brought him back to his wits with a jerk as the connection was slammed down on like a teacher smacking a student’s hand with a ruler. The harsh sting throbbed in harmony with the echoing slap of wood against bare skin as a reminder to never forget which hand was right. Only a suicidal fool would be stupid enough to be deceived by the lure of false comfort given by a savage beast hidden in his own skin.
Fugo felt the visceral sensation of Purple Haze recoiling like a kicked puppy unable to understand why its owner lashed out when it was only trying to show affection in the only way it knew how.
“Go away,” Fugo whispered to the empty air. “I don’t want you. You kill people and I hate you.”
Purple Haze whined in distress. Like the freak of nature had any right to be upset when it had melted the flesh off grown adults within seconds. Giving them a death no living thing deserved. They were only trying to do their job and they get scared when their colleagues starting screaming in agony as soggy flesh begun melting off their bones while they were still conscious and alive.
He didn’t mean to kill them—
The phantom weight of a hand resting on his shoulder forced him to whip around. Strands of white hair caught in his lashes as his chest heaved with the nauseating jerk of his heart in the cage of his lungs and ribs where it pounded relentlessly and violent against them in a useless act of adrenaline for an unwanted guest that wasn’t even there. Fugo gagged at the oder that burned itself permanently in his nose. His gut tightened into a knot as he hunched over, clutching at his stomach as he frantically swallowed down the saliva coating the inside of his mouth. The sharp sting of acid curled up the back of his throat only to barely be forced back down in time.
Shoving down the panic doesn’t help, it never does but he knows he can’t stay here. The room is too small. He needs an open space. Somewhere with enough room he can be safe from the thing trying to make itself smaller inside his chest. Realistically, he couldn’t go far. He has no idea where he is in town but maybe he could just stand out on the sidewalk and surround himself with places he can dive into if IT summons itself.
The doorknob freezes his hand to the touch as he slowly turned it open and peeked out into the hallway, only his own reflection in the mirror stared back at him as he creeped out and shut the door with a gentle click. The bottomless abyss of the staircases on either side of the hallway were creepy as fuck. It reminded him of his family’s estate and the too big rooms with shadows the moved and pretended to play still when one jerked back to make sure they were well and truly alone. But he wasn’t alone anymore.
He was cursed to never be alone. Stuck with the curse of gummy, melting flesh and organs stripping themselves from the inside out until it was nothing more than stuffing from a teddy bear a child had gotten into and left strewn out to find later. A mockery of something to show their parents with a smile hoping to see pride instead of fear.
It was quiet as he crept along the cold hardwood floors, glancing out the window above the staircase that lead downstairs. Floral curtains hung from the silver rod above it. Even with the moonlight, he couldn’t quite make out what sat in wait in the backyard besides the sight of a tall, stone fence encasing the premises. He didn’t want to be fenced in so he ignored the backdoor in the empty dining room. Funnily enough, a bowl of fruit sat on the middle of the table runner made of cream fabric with a weave of vines and ferns along the middle. He made sure to glare at the mirror as he passed.
Only an open stretch of hallway separated him from his sanctuary of cold night air. The living room was pitch black when he cautiously peaked inside, though if anyone was there, they would have seen him coming down the stairs. A black tv screen is the only thing that greeted him so he moved along. Mentally cursing his lack of foresight to grab his shoes as the thought of his own stupidly dawned on him.
Fuck it.
He’s not going back up to get them. If he steps on a rusty nail or a piece of glass, he steps on it. It’ll heal eventually even if walking becomes a royal pain in the ass.
Later, much later, he’d feel stupid for creeping around. Not knowing that the purposeful silent steps of socked feet were out of place in this house where everyone had grown used to the weight of their squad’s footsteps.
“If you wanted to go outside, there’s a backyard for a reason.” An almost familiar deep and smooth voice called out.
“Oh mY GOD—!” Fugo exclaimed, his palm smacking flat against his chest in the worst attempt he’d ever made to quell his racing heart. Purple Haze shimmered behind him. A ghost frightening off another ghost.
Who the hell in their right mind sits in the dark?!
The squad leader sat unperturbed at the table Fugo noted earlier, wearing the exact same outfit and facing the front door with a thick, scarlet colored book vaguely labeled as ‘Physiology’ in unassuming bold, golden letters. The moonlight shining through the two windows was the only light the man chose to read in.
“So your Stand’s humanoid. Good to know.” Risotto’s comment made him freeze. The reminder of rules his leader told him flashed like a streetlight on a warm summer night. Purple Haze vanished instantly. “Have you eaten today?”
Risotto didn’t look up, flipping a page like he was talking about the weather. It took him a second, but he finally placed the accent that had been bothering him in the back of his mind. Risotto spoke with a Sicilian accent. So he wasn’t Italian.
A small part of him was eager to use the knowledge he’d been taught growing up with his leader. It was shoved down.
Fugo frowned. He could outrun a grown man, right? His Stand nudged at him, a reminder it could kill him instead. He thinks better of it and shamefully shuffled forward to sit at the open chair across from him. Thoughts of going outside shunned for accidentally threatening his leader’s life. It’s only now he noticed the two folders laid out on the small, round table. One is open and there’s a picture of a girl with short, red hair, perhaps a teenager, with the words; ‘STAND AND USER HIGHLY DANGEROUS: PROCEED WITH CAUTION’, printed along the bottom.
“If your hungry, there’s stuff to eat in the fridge. Prosciutto sat aside a plate from dinner for you.” Risotto sighed, setting down his book over the open folder. Fugo could take a hint. “I planned on bringing it up to you. Dinner ended up being later than usual tonight, but your iron leveled out like it should have when someone goes to sleep. So I decided to wait it out. Good thing too. And I’m going to be honest here, someone would have snagged you from the street this late of night and either raped you or kidnapped you, probably both.”
Fugo flinched, wincing at the brutal honesty that he could wholeheartedly say he appreciated. Beating around the bush and avoiding the problem never did anyone any good. Hypocritical? Yes. He was pathetically self aware. Also, iron leveling out? What the fuck did that mean? Was it a Stand thing? Something told him it was.
He ignored it about as gracefully as one could falling face first down the stairs.
“If you somehow haven’t noticed, which means your either blind or just plain stupid, this isn’t a good neighborhood. It’s good for us, being assassins for the Boss that often end up with us coming back covered in blood and needing to be inconspicuous, but that’s about it.”
“Why do you dress like that if your not trying to stand out?” Fugo blandly pointed out. He wanted to take it back the moment he said it.
Risotto’s lips quirked in amusement. “Personally? My cousin got me into the style and I haven’t changed my preference since. And no, my hair isn’t dyed. It’s naturally white.”
There was a strange giddiness that swelled in his chest to share an abnormal trait with the man. Crushing it underneath his heel is the only thing he can do to prevent himself from making the mistake of trusting someone too fast again just because his stupid brain saw them as being kind. He cursed the child in him being so damn eager to bond with something it saw as both similar and familiar to him.
“My hair is also naturally white.”
“Are you an albino or something?”
“Yes. No one else in my family has red eyes or white hair. They’re all blond hair with purple eyes.”
“Mhm.” Risotto nodded, like he was actually listening. Which was weird. And definitely a trap to lure him into a false sense of security. “Would you approach me on the street if I was wearing this outfit?”
“Hell no. Your an adult, also, you look like a goth that would punch me in the face for talking to you.”
He got an actual smile that showed teeth this time.
“The stranger the outfit the less likely people will approach you. Besides, it’s a curse for Stand users, just like how Stands users are drawn to other Stand users. If you look at the people walking by you, you can pick them out easily.” Risotto explained, like it made any logical sense.
How the hell did someone’s god awful fashion choices affect if they were a Stand user? Oh no. Is he cursed to wear something awful now too? But he doesn’t want to become a goth clown! Black absorbs too much heat and he gets sunburned easily enough without any help from atrocious cutouts in the fabric that don’t have any business being there in the first place! Maybe it was a mental breakdown that caused it.
Great. He just had to avoid those.
Easier said then done…
Fuck, he doesn’t want to look like cheese.
Risotto chuckled, low and deep, and kinda terrifying. “Don’t worry. Ghiaccio doesn’t have too bad of a fashion sense.” His eyes shifted behind him, “Need something, Illuso?”
Fugo followed his gaze, finding a man that was probably as tall if not taller than Risotto himself. And thankfully nowhere near as intimating. It was hard to make out the man’s features when he was standing in the dark but he seemed to be wearing a jacket of some sort with his hair in a ponytail. Ponytails? What is going on there? He can’t see worth anything.
He also didn’t hear his approach whatsoever.
“I’m heading out for that assignment.” Plain and straightforward. Nothing more and nothing less.
Risotto nodded, waving him off and they watched the man leave. The front door clicked as it was locked. It was so anticlimax Fugo was actually disappointed. He didn’t know what to expect but he thought there would be a bit of dramatics or something. Maybe it was plain because he was here when he wasn’t supposed to be.
“That reminds me.” Risotto paused to grab the folder that had been spared the fate of being covered by a book. Flipping it open, he grabbed a pen. “We all have monikers. Helps keep a level of anonymity if you have any family or friends you still care about that are alive. Though you might end up with an unfortunate nickname that has the misfortune of sticking no matter what you pick. What do you want yours to be?”
The answer was simple.
“I want to drag my family name through the mud.” And that had been that.
Nonna kept her maiden name so she would be kept at peace.
He got a nod of confirmation and Risotto wrote something down in his elegant and swoopy penmanship. The kind an overbearing parent would kill for their child to have. The folder was closed the second he was finished.
“You said someone named Gelato would be pissed, why?” That little comment irked him. He didn’t even know who that was and yet he had somehow already done something to piss them off. Must be some type of new world record.
If Risotto was surprised he remembered, he hid it well. “Gelato has a soft spot for kids. Apparently, him and Sorbet had been seriously debating adopting one besides his distaste for involving children with Passione. Trust me when I say he made his opinion crystal clear during dinner.”
He could understand envious and jealous comments, but if this Gelato pitied him one bit he was going to break his face in. And that was a promise. Not a threat. A threat implies he won’t go through with it because it implies is all talk to be intimidating. No. He will crush and cave his skull in.
He was quick to stop his stupid brain from going any further. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. Please don’t make him hurt anyone.
“What specifically am I going to be doing here?” Fugo asked. The question he’s been wanted answered for hours now. He’s made his bed and now he was going to lie in it.
Because that somehow makes sense.
Risotto sighed heavily. As if all that air pushed out of his lungs would exhale out all the exhaustion with it. “I suppose this is something you have the right to know in advance. Before you’re assigned to any missions, I’m going to test both you and your Stand to gauge how you’d react in a situation so the only missions you’ll be sent on won’t be for a long while, and you won’t go alone for even longer. It isn’t failure if you don’t pass the requirements. It only means you grew up without fearing for your life. And I’m happy for you in that regard, truly. But that isn’t your life anymore. Your going to end up paranoid and constantly second guessing over your shoulder. That will have to be trained out of you. It’ll do nothing but make your paranoia grow until it’s unbearable and your nothing more than a trembling coward shoved into the corner of a room so you can jump at every little flicker of light.”
Risotto leveled him with a look, one that glared deep into his soul and pinned him in place. A warning. His jaw tensed, flexing his throat as he rested his elbows on the table to fold his hands below his nose.
“Polpo’s decision to send you our way was purposeful. I have no doubt he has something more at play that he isn’t telling. Especially since Bucciarati is his favorite soldato and has recently started looking for recruits for his own team.” Risotto’s eyes narrowed. “Your Stand ability is either deadly or useless except in only very situational places.”
“I thought you knew.” Heavy lead balled tight in his gut. Forcing his stomach to clench into itself trying to ease the sharp pain.
“No,” Risotto coldly corrected. “I acted like I did. Acting like you know more then you do makes people more willing to talk because they think you know when your truly the one that’s clueless. And judging by the look in your eyes, your scared of your own Stand. And since your scared of your Stand, it has to be deadly. I have never seen someone so scared of themselves before. Stands are a reflection of your soul. From its form to its sentience and ability. It’s all a manifestation and a mirror of you.”
Fugo would panic if he wasn’t frozen still. No one has ever been able to read him so plainly as if he was nothing more than a frog laid out for dissection on a cold, metal tray.
“Murolo sent me everything he could dig up on you. I’m sorry for your loss. Losing a close family member isn’t easy, well, I’m assuming you were close. Feel free to talk about her. No one can use someone that’s already dead against us.” Risotto offered a tense smile. It didn’t reach his eyes that suddenly seemed so sharp and cold. A deadly precision reserved for targets and targets alone. “He included the police reports and the photos taken of the teacher you beat to death. Including what you told to the police about what happened.”
Cold dread gripped him in her sharpened claws as his breath hitched painfully trying to choke him. His skin prickled as Purple Haze unconsciously began to shimmer into existence unbeknownst to its user. Already his fingers hurt from where they gripped the fabric of his pants in a death grip.
“So tell me, why did you beat that professor to death?” Risotto asked. His voice made it sound hardly like an optional question. “I read the police reports and the witness statements, but I’d rather hear it from you. Human beings, especially thirteen year olds, don’t tend to kill one other. So why would you? You were a perfect student. Highly intelligent and no reports of previous violent habits, so why did you kill him? Was it something he said?” Fugo looked down at the table in something he could only describe as shame. Risotto’s voice hardened, “Or something he did?”
Fugo bowed his head, refusing to answer. Apparently, the man saw whatever he wanted because he continued.
“Your body language is a dead giveaway. Don’t worry, I won’t tell any of the others. But I am going to tell them not to bother you as much as they normally would new members. You snapped for good reason, kid. You simultaneously belong here and don’t. But the look in your eyes is a sign you can never go back.”
“I-I’m sorry.” Fugo forced out, hating how it stuttered and stumbled into itself. His eyes burned. Like they always did when his emotions got the better of him. It was either cry, or kill someone. And crying it was because murder is illegal.
“Don’t apologize.” Risotto rumbled, eyes trained solely on the deep purple shimmer trying to manifest behind Fugo. He could not blame a Stand for doing its job. “If anyone should be apologizing, it is the figliolu di puttana that’s already six feet under.”
Fugo inhaled, then exhaled. Trying to will away the growing panic attack by pleading with it despite his awful luck. The air grew heavy and suffocating as Purple Haze fully manifested, effectively trapping the two humans into a corner. He hovered behind his user, keeping guard but never making his presence known lest he frighten Fugo.
“The Hitman team has eight members, nine including you.” Risotto began explaining, almost like a distraction but that would be too kind for an adult to offer a child that wasn’t even theirs. “Sorbet and Gelato have been with me the longest. They’re joined at the hip and a couple. Hope two men being together doesn’t bother you because they don’t give a shit what you think.” Fugo let himself smile. It was barely a curl of the corners of his lips. “They live on the fourth floor along with Prosciutto and his younger brother, Pesci. Pesci isn’t a member of our team nor is he involved with Passione. He hangs around because Prosciutto doesn’t want to leave him alone.”
The names of his other teammates blurred together. Little tidbits of information that his mind simultaneously grabbed onto and finding other bits useless and throwing them away to the wind.
Something about Ghiaccio throwing a baseball through a window and trying to hide it with a sheet of ice.
Someone named Formaggio and his apparent love for stubborn cats.
The door they had to replace after someone decided to shove a firework into one of the holes someone punched into it.
The disgusting and sticky wetness of tears drying on his overly warm cheeks was gross. The tackiness of it as he wiped feverishly at his flushed skin, undoubtedly looking as much as a tomato as he felt. Risotto immediately took notice of him calming down. Purple Haze faded away, pretending he had never been there to begin with.
“I meant to show you the bathroom earlier. You probably want to take a shower and eat something.” Risotto moved to grab the folders and his book. It’s only now Fugo realized his movements were deliberately slower than yesterday. “Don’t worry about waking anyone up. No one has known a proper sleep schedule in years and they all sleep like the dead anyways. The only other one up is Melone, the purple guy from the couch, and the only reason he would come out of his room this late would be to raid the kitchen.”
Fugo took the advice. Drained of all the energy he had gained from his nap. He struggled figuring out how to turn the shower on. The curse of using one in someone else’s home as he glared at the stubborn thing refusing to budge. It shouldn’t be this difficult.
In the end, he figured it out. Only after seriously contemplating if he could rip the sink out of the wall, counter and all, and bash it against the wall.
It was early when Fugo got up and made the choice to go downstairs after half heartedly combing through his hair with his fingers to look mildly presentable. Pointedly avoiding giving a single thought towards what Risotto told him last night, and childishly hoping his misplaced trust in the older man would be enough to believe he had kept his word about telling everyone else about what exactly happened at university.
Truthfully, the only reason he left his room was because his throat was dry. The kind that made your tongue stick uncomfortably to the roof of your mouth and the inside of your cheeks. Generally unpleasant all around.
There was someone sitting hunched over at the table, mumbling over a textbook and a spiral notebook. The green hair was almost too bright with all the sun bouncing off the color, making it appear vibrant. Whoever it was seemed busy.
Fugo shrugged, noting that no one else seemed to be up as he opened the cupboards one by one until he found the cups. Everything was dead quiet. The tv was off and everything was almost surreal. It was a little awkward standing in the kitchen sipping at his water. It was nice and cold. Soothing to the desert he tried choking down his throat.
Crimson eyes narrowed at the head of green hair. He thinks it’s Pesci.
Something’s trying to convince him it is. It’s hard to remember but he thinks Risotto said something about Pesci having green hair. If he’s wrong, then he’ll correct himself later and forever remember in the dead of night twenty years in the future that he called the man with green hair the wrong name.
Pesci reminded him of an eggplant. Or a carrot. A carrot that wasn’t orange but flesh colored. But he didn’t gross him out like Poplo did. Dear god, Polpo freaked him out a lot. How did a human get that tall? Fugo shuddered at the thought of the capo. Eternally grateful the likeliness of running into him was less then ten percent.
The confused mumbling was starting to get on his nerves. The urge to grab him by his hair and slam his head into the table was powerful. He ignored it. Shoving it down. Out of sight, out of mind.
Fugo sighed, his curiosity outweighing his want to mind his own business. Walking over, it took only a glance to see the errors in the method Pesci was trying to use.
“Your doing it wrong.” Pesci startled but Fugo was swift to pick up a pen and write down a quick step by step example on a spare sheet of paper. “Follow that.”
He eyed the fruit. Risotto said he could basically eat whatever but he wasn’t comfortable with that. It was possible they were fake fruit. Why people kept fake fruit? It still didn’t make sense to him. He decided to watch Pesci instead and pulled out a chair and sat next to him to observe. His cup sat patiently atop a coaster, gathering precipitation the longer it sat.
Pesci was going good, he was just a bit confused on the middle process which he understood easily enough when he had decent notes and an example to look at. Fugo was excited he understood it so well. Before he was forced into university, he had hung around the high school’s library after school to help other students with their homework. A tutor of sorts.
It had been fun.
The front door slammed open, nearly hitting the shelf behind it and the mirror. A man with blond hair stood in the doorway, mumbling irritably to himself as he shut and locked the door door with his arms full of cloth bags. Was everyone tall or something? If that’s a requirement then he’s already failed with flying colors.
The blond was scowling at something, sparing them a glance and lingering half a second longer on Fugo with narrowed blue eyes before continuing into the kitchen. The acidic nip of cigarette smoke and expensively rich cologne wafted off him. Fugo could admit it smelt good. He wore a nice suit too so maybe there is hope. But what’s with showing off his chest and stomach? And the giant letter hanging off his neck?
His hair style was a bit strange too but it looked really good. It was tied up in small bun, things. Actually, what was on his head? How many bobby pins did he use? Mother used a lot, well, the maids did when they did her hair for her.
Pesci perked up, already halfway out of his chair. “Need any help, fra?”
“No. Finish your homework.” The blond was curt and left no room for argument. His voice was deeper than he thought it would be.
Wait. Fra? Like fratello? Presumably it was Prosciutto then, the older brother. The second-in-command. Should he help him with the groceries?
Fugo was about to get up and help until he saw Pesci struggling with a new equation. Picking back up the pen, another example was given. The rustle of fabric and the closing of cabinet doors was oddly nice. It reminded him of the early mornings when his nonna got back from the farmers market with fresh produce and strawberries whenever they were in season.