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Giorno never thought he could be addicted to someone, but here he was. Half asleep, half conscious, blood-stained and bruised, eyes drooping, slumped over in the backseat of a car. He nearly laughed, probably delirious. The slope of pale shoulders in front of him teased him, beautiful and strong, dotted with freckles like the galaxy with stars. Giorno really, really wanted to bury his face in those shoulders and forget the world.
Instead, his head slammed against the car window as the vehicle skidded against the concrete in a too-sharp turn. He didn’t react outwardly; he had grown used to not reacting outwardly to pain. Instead, he looked up towards the rearview mirror, where wide, determined carmine eyes briefly flitted to meet his own. Giorno smiled deliriously, and he heard Fugo curse.
He was getting dizzier by the moment, and his head grew fuzzier and fuzzier. Every once in a while, his eyes would slip shut, but then Fugo would demand Open your eyes, you asshole! and, of course, Giorno did. If it was up to him, he’d do anything for Fugo— he just couldn’t be too obvious about it, or else the boy might catch on, and… Well, Giorno had a feeling that Fugo wouldn’t be the most comfortable with that sort of admiration. He could, after all, hardly bear the little praises of Good work, Pannacotta and You did wonderfully, dear. He didn’t view himself as someone worthy of love, Mista had once explained. It made him uncomfortable, apparently, and Giorno certainly didn’t want that, so he could stay silent about how he loved Fugo.
It wasn’t a romantic thing, either. Mista had asked him, once, if he liked Fugo like that, and Giorno, in a brief moment of uncertainty, had said yes. The questions then grew unbearable and intrusive, and Giorno was, frankly, appalled. No, of course he didn’t want to kiss Fugo on the lips! He just wanted to hold the boy, tell him he was loved, teach him that he was loved and show him what it was like.
And yet, at the same time, Giorno himself wasn’t quite sure what it felt like to be loved.
He thought it was something like what he’d found with the gang. He thought it was the tea that Buccellati would make for him on late nights when they were both up working; he thought it was the way Narancia would laugh at his half-hearted jokes, or when they hadn’t seen each other all day and Narancia would hurl himself into Giorno’s arms; he thought it was the way Mista stood firmly by his side through it all, the good and the bad, and laid a blanket over Giorno’s shoulders when he passed out at his desk. He thought that maybe, just maybe, being loved was falling asleep on Fugo’s shoulder, strolling through the gardens together on sleepless nights, listening to the boy’s lovely voice read him all fourteen hundred pages of his favorite story, and then feeling that same boy crumple against him and sob in his arms when everything was too much, trusting Giorno to be the one to care for him, Giorno to hold him and kiss his hair and whisper reassurances into the air.
He loved Fugo, he really did. What wasn’t there to love? His temper, his arrogance, his anxiety— all of his “flaws” were more than manageable. In fact, Giorno had watched carefully these past few months, and all of that had improved significantly. Fugo once said he was broken, but… slowly, slowly, Giorno was watching him pick up the shattered pieces of his soul and put them back together. It was beautiful.
“Fucking hell, Giorno, eyes open!” Fugo snapped from the driver’s seat. “We’re almost there!”
Giorno had attempted to heal himself with Gold Experience earlier, but he had been poisoned somehow, and he couldn’t make an antidote without knowing what type of poison it was. So, he laid there, vision blurry, trying to focus on Fugo’s pretty shoulders and the pretty white hair lining his neck. He slurred something incomprehensible, even to himself, and Fugo cursed loudly, slamming his hands on the steering wheel, which promptly honked.
They turned into the hospital lot, Giorno realized fuzzily. He heard Gold Experience’s fearful voice in his head: It is in your bloodstream. At some point, the car stopped moving, and he heard the door slam as Fugo got out. Then a hand slapped him awake roughly, and Giorno’s head lolled as he blinked heavily. The boy’s pretty face met him, though it was lined with worry and anger.
“Don’t you dare die here, Giorno Giovanna!” he snapped.
Giorno just beamed, staring into Fugo’s wide ruby eyes. “Pretty,” he slurred, and then everything went black.
-
He woke up to the sound of beeping machines. Groaning quietly, Giorno opened his eyes, squinting into the dimly lit room. It was sterile, white: a hospital room. There was an IV in his arm, and he was wearing a flimsy hospital gown, which made him wince more than the pain did— and the pain was there. Not anywhere near as bad as before, thankfully, but still present. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” a voice said. Giorno raised his head sharply, then let out a breath of relief.
“Hello, Guido,” he replied, voice dry.
Mista smiled, scratching his jaw a bit awkwardly. “You know you don’t have to call me that.”
Giorno just blinks. “I want to,” he murmured, “as long as you’re comfortable with it.”
“Sure,” Mista said, shrugging absentmindedly. “I don’t mind.”
“Good,” Giorno agreed, though he didn’t have the energy to smile like he normally would. “It doesn’t feel right to call a friend by his last name.” Then he paused, and his voice grew slightly more unsure. “Guido?”
Mista glanced at him. “Yeah?”
“Am I safe now?” He hated how his voice shook, just a little, though he was sure Mista didn’t notice; if anyone were to notice, it would be Buccellati. The man always had a knack for reading people.
Mista grinned at him broadly. “I wouldn’t let those doctors leave you to die, now would I?” he asked. “The Don’s bodyguard is an important job!”
Giorno actually smiled this time, his lips curving on their own. “Thank you,” he said softly.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s no problem,” Mista said.
Giorno hesitated before asking, “How is Pannacotta?”
Mista shrugged. “Fugo’s fine, I guess. A little shook, but that’s to be expected.”
“Can I see him?” Giorno asked, a little too hurriedly. “Is he here?”
“Uh, yeah. He’s outside somewhere; Nara, Abba, and Buccellati left to hunt down whoever poisoned you, but I made Fugo stay here, since I knew you’d want to see him. Want me to get him?”
Giorno shook his head. “No worries. I’ll get him myself.” He sat up in the hospital bed, pushing himself off before Mista could protest, only to collapse on the floor. He cursed, but his entire body remained slightly numb. It seemed that moving wasn’t something he was ready for.
“Fucking hell, Gio!” Mista groaned, crouching down to haul Giorno off the (freezing cold) floor. “I thought you’d learned your lesson!”
Giorno just pursed his lips. It appeared that his dignity was no longer his to preserve. He couldn’t do anything.
Mista placed him back on the bed, throwing the thin sheet over him and handing him a bottle of water. “Drink,” he ordered. “I’ll go get Fugo.”
Stifling a sigh, Giorno unscrewed the cap and took a sip of water. Mista, finally satisfied, began to leave, pausing only to flash him an I’m watching you gesture. Giorno just rolled his eyes, slumping against the pillow at his back. God, he was exhausted. But he really did want to check on Fugo. He must’ve freaked the poor boy out, calling to him in a panic once realizing something was wrong, then nearly passing out in the car, and actually passing out eventually when they arrived at the hospital. Apparently Gold Experience had some way to prevent the spread of poison, or at least slow it down, since Giorno was sure he should’ve died.
Fugo arrived quickly, Mista tailing him. When his wide, carmine eyes met Giorno’s, Fugo stiffened his posture and tightened his jaw. Giorno smiled at him.
“Hello, Pannacotta,” he said warmly. “You saved my life. Thank you for that.”
Fugo shrugged uncomfortably, looking away. “You saved mine first,” he muttered. “It’s my job anyway. I shouldn’t have let you get hurt in the first place.”
Giorno shook his head. “That wasn't your fault.”
“Doctors said Gio was poisoned with a transdermal patch— tiny thing, clear gel pad. It was on your neck, under your suit collar,” Mista interrupted. “It wasn’t your fault, Fugo. Whoever did it was close enough to apply it without suspicion. Actually, they think it was applied hours before you passed out, Gio.”
“Wonderful,” Fugo said snappishly.
“I believe Gold Experience slowed the spread, although I don’t know how,” Giorno explained.
Mista nodded thoughtfully, scratching his jaw. “Yup. I’m sure it could do that. Anyway, whoever the son of a bitch was, we’ll get him. Abbacchio’s out there with Nara and Buccellati. Moody Blues will find something.”
“Of course. I trust them,” Giorno agreed. Then he glanced over at Fugo, who was still standing off to the side, nervously cracking his knuckles. That was an adorable habit of his, Giorno had always thought. He was so cute, even if he didn’t mean to seem so. Tough and cunning and vicious, yes, but also so gentle and kind. “Pannacotta?” Giorno asked. “Please, come here.”
Fugo jumped, but looked over at him and approached slowly, cautiously. Giorno couldn’t help but smile tiredly.
“Come here, darling,” he said softly, holding his arms out. Fugo stood still, looking bewildered. Giorno just gestured for him to move closer. “Darling,” he repeated, as gently as he could.
He noticed, then, that Fugo was trembling. The poor boy was actually shaking, and Giorno did not miss how Mista looked at him worriedly, concerned for him. Giorno frowned, then sat up slightly and reached for Fugo who finally (reluctantly) approached, his normally pale cheeks flushed a sweet red.
“Hmm,” Giorno said, thoughtful. He didn’t know what to do for Fugo, not now, but he figured… Ah, there. Fugo moved closer, slightly pressing himself into Giorno’s arms, too hesitant. “There you go, honey,” Giorno encouraged softly, fondly, tucking the boy against him, pulling him against the hospital bed so his chest lay against Giorno’s own.
Fugo just let out a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut briefly, before finally looking back up at Giorno, a singular tear sliding down his gaunt cheek. Oh, the poor boy. He tried to hide it behind neatly re-styled hair and a clean, carefully pressed suit, but he was truly shaken. Giorno’s heart ached. All he wanted was to comfort the boy, to tell him everything was alright and he was safe, they were both safe, but he didn’t.
Instead, as a sob finally escaped Fugo, Giorno met Mista’s gaze across the room and saw his own concern reflected in his friend’s eyes, but remained too exhausted and pained to do anything about it.
Fugo gasped, then squeezed his eyes shut and managed to stifle the rest of his sobs, though tears leaked from his eyes onto the thin, flimsy fabric of Giorno’s hospital gown. It was agonizing, to feel Fugo so close, to know he was in such pain, yet be unable to help him. Giorno simply squeezed his eyes shut and weakly pulled Fugo closer. Eventually, the boy twisted out of his grip to take a seat on the side of the hospital bed, and, after a few seconds away from Giorno’s touch, Fugo melted into him. Giorno had never experienced that before, never seen Fugo so soft, so willing to accept affection. It was… breathtaking. He was so beautiful like that, arms slowly, slowly wrapping around Giorno, open and willing and malleable.
“Thank you, Pannacotta,” Giorno sighed, tucking his face into the crook of Fugo’s neck, against his lean, muscular shoulder. He had never felt as at peace as he felt then, even if Fugo’s touch remained tentative.
“I don’t know what you’re thanking me for,” Fugo replied, his voice catching on the lump in his throat.
Giorno tore his eyes away from the boy’s soft, snowy hair, instead meeting Mista’s eyes. Mista caught his gaze and smiled, though the expression was slightly watery. He looked at the two of them longingly, almost. Something behind his eyes looked sad; Giorno, however, wasn’t quite sure what, or why. How peculiar.
“You’re so sweet, that’s all,” Giorno murmured, still locking eyes with Mista, who, oddly enough, flinched.
Fugo swallowed audibly, and Giorno glanced back over at him, raising a hand to his hair, gently running his fingers through it. A sob caught in the boy’s throat, and when Giorno’s fingers tangled in his hair, gently massaging his scalp, something of a keen escaped him. His eyes were wide and adoring as he stared up at Giorno, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Giorno, too distracted by Fugo, didn’t notice the way Mista stood up to leave, chair screeching against the tile floor. He raised a hand to Fugo’s cheek, cupping his face in his palm, thumb tracing the apple of his cheek. The boy leaned heavily into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut, lips parted just slightly. Then he smiled, lips curling into a soft, grateful grin, pressing his face into Giorno’s hand and opening his eyes. When their gazes met, Giorno just stared at him, affection surging through him. He leaned in briefly, gently pressing his lips to Fugo’s forehead, just above his brow.
“Thank you, Giogio,” Fugo whispered, red eyes gleaming. Thankfully, he wasn’t shaking any longer.
“Of course,” Giorno replied warmly, impossibly adoring as he stared unabashedly. He tucked Fugo closer to himself, pulling the boy further onto the hospital bed. “Stay here with me, please. I need someone to keep me company.” Now that Mista had, apparently, disappeared. Fugo was always lovely company, though, especially when he let Giorno hold and cuddle him, which he did now, only shifting to get more comfortable.
“Yeah,” Fugo said, turning on his side to tuck his legs up to his chest, head pressed against Giorno’s collarbone. He was soft, softer than usual. He didn't hesitate to immediately snuggle closer, as if the initial breaking of the touch barrier had made him eager. Giorno ran a hand through his short, snowy hair and Fugo sighed contentedly, pressing his cheek into the boy’s skin, exposed by the hospital gown.
Despite his eagerness to get Fugo to be with him up here, and his encouragement of the boy, Giorno still wasn’t quite used to this. He really, really enjoyed it, of course, but it was still a novel experience that made his heart race. Then again, Fugo’s chest pressing against his proved that Fugo’s heart was racing, too. Maybe they were equally nervous, and maybe that was okay. After all, this was still new.
“Oh, darling,” he murmured, eyes slipping shut as he pressed his forehead into Fugo’s shoulder, suddenly overcome with an aching sensation. He felt a hand slowly reach for him, fingers brushing his hair, and leaned into it eagerly. Hesitantly, Fugo’s fingers carded through his hair, and Giorno relaxed into him, nuzzling his shoulder. He hummed in contentment, a small smile spreading across his lips as Fugo seemed to relax more, gently stroking Giorno’s hair.
“Giorno,” he said softly, confusedly. “Are… Are you okay?”
Giorno nodded quietly, pressing his face into Fugo’s skin and taking a deep breath. He smelled like mint and strawberries, which, knowing him, made sense. It was lovely either way. However, Giorno wasn’t in the mood for being vulnerable— at least, not any more vulnerable than he already was, wearing nothing but a hospital gown and melting into the boy he truly, genuinely, (secretly) loved more than nearly anything in the world— so he didn’t voice what he wanted. He could be content like this, anyway.
“Talk to me,” Giorno told him. He shifted slightly, sitting up straighter, and pulled Fugo further onto his lap. “What happened after I blacked out?”
Fugo hesitated, glancing down at him with pursed lips before sighing, his expression softening slightly. “Well. I had to carry you inside before the doctors got you. I’m not really sure what they did, some sort of emergency procedure, I guess, but they said the poison was out of your system. You’re supposed to stay here a couple days so the doctors can monitor you to be sure, but otherwise you’re in the clear.”
Giorno was barely listening to his words, instead focusing on the sound of his voice. His voice really was something beautiful, sincere and calming, comfortable. Smooth and confident, velvety. Giorno could go days just listening to him speak.
“Giorno?” Fugo asked, the hand in Giorno’s hair stilling. Giorno blinked, raising his head to meet Fugo’s eyes, letting out a gentle sigh and just… taking him in. Pale, pale skin, hair the color of snow, long, ivory lashes fluttering over familiar carmine eyes brimming with barely restrained emotion. His cheeks were gaunt, face defined by sharp features, jaw a keen line, white brows barely visible on his light skin. There were bags under his eyes, and he had this perpetually tired look about him, though his eyes themselves were wide and engaged.
“Um…” Fugo said, trailing off, his cheeks rosy. He stared back at Giorno, looking confused yet enraptured.
Giorno smiled. “It’s nothing,” he murmured. “Let’s just rest a moment, okay? You look exhausted, Pannacotta.”
Fugo stammered, searching for words, before exclaiming, “Giogio! You’re the one that almost died— you need rest! I’ll be okay. I’ve got to keep an eye on you anyway, in case someone tries to finish the job.”
“Oh,” Giorno said blankly. Fugo flinches.
“Sorry, I— I shouldn’t have said it like that,” he stammered. “But it’s true! I’d never be able to forgive myself if you got hurt on my watch. Earlier, it wasn’t my job, but…”
Giorno frowned slightly, his brows pinching together with confusion. “It’s not your job. You’re not a bodyguard.”
Fugo didn’t meet his eyes or respond, staring at the clock on the wall resolutely.
“You don’t feel responsible for all of this, do you?” Giorno whispered.
Fugo just stared, his eyes watering. That alone was enough confirmation.
“Oh,” Giorno said quietly. “Oh, dear. Pannacotta…”
Fugo closed his eyes, and a singular tear rolled down his cheek. When he spoke, his voice was choked up. “Can you… not call me that right now?”
Giorno bit his lip, but nodded. He hummed thoughtfully, then said, “Panna.”
Trembling, Fugo moved a bit closer, then buried his face in Giorno’s shoulder and sobbed. Giorno let him. He didn’t mind, not at all. In fact, he raised his hand— the one with the IV— to Fugo’s hair and combed his fingers through it, though the action sent a twinge of pain through his hand. His other arm lingered near Fugo’s waist, gently snaking around his torso to hold him, though he waited for Fugo to acknowledge the touch before committing.
“Panna…” he said again, softer. The boy sobbed again, and his arms slipped around Giorno gently, so gently. He was so gentle with Giorno, always gentle with Giorno. He’d fight the others in an instant, ram a fork into Narancia’s or Mista’s skin, but touched Giorno like he was glass. Giorno wondered, why was that? Did Fugo truly care that much, or was he just extra careful because Giorno was his Don?
Either way, Giorno loved him. He’d never admit it, but the gentle touches, the hesitancy… It meant a lot to him. He knew Fugo was just nervous and it probably wasn’t on purpose, but it was reassuring to Giorno anyway, knowing that he wasn’t the only one here who was lost on what to do. They were in this together, like always. Like it had been since Fugo returned.
“Shh… Close your eyes,” Giorno murmured. “Deep breaths, dear.”
Fugo didn’t respond, but he did begin to take deep, shaky breaths, trying to calm himself down. Giorno just continued to stroke his hair, his other hand rubbing small circles into his back. He wanted to remember this moment, the surge of mixed emotions— concern, adoration, nervousness— and to sear the feeling of Fugo’s touch into his mind. After all, he had no idea when, or if, this would happen again. It was too good to forget. A memory was always better than a dream.
“You’re okay,” Giorno whispered. “It’s not your fault, Panna.”
“Stop,” Fugo croaked, and Giorno stopped. He hesitated, worried he made things worse, when Fugo added, “Please, just… Tell me about something. The— the new plants you got. In your room. What are they?”
Giorno felt his heart swell with warmth. He remembered? That was surprisingly touching. He had gotten the orchids just a few days ago, since it had been a while since he added plants to his collection. “Right,” he said slowly, gingerly touching Fugo’s head. When the boy pressed himself up into the touch eagerly, Giorno gently began to massage his scalp, fingers twirling around snowy strands of hair. “They’re moth orchids, also known as Phalaenopsis orchids. I haven’t had orchids yet— they require quite specific care, so I’ve been hesitant, but I finally caved…”
He continued like that, just… talking. Not about anything important, mostly about his flowers in his room or in the gardens. He was especially proud of the Middlemist’s red camellias he grew weeks ago, which were considered some of the rarest flowers in the world, growing only in two places— now three. Only two plants were believed to have existed prior, but now Giorno has devoted a section of his greenhouse to multiple. He explains that, because of how rare they are, a singular plant is estimated to sell for millions.
Fugo snorts at that, his nose pressed into the crook of Giorno’s neck, his lips curling into a smile. “You stopped the drug trade to traffic organs. Maybe add flowers to that,” he joked. That alone told Giorno he was feeling better.
“You’re right,” Giorno chuckled. “I’ll sell the seeds, see what happens. Soon it won’t be the rarest flower.”
“True,” Fugo said thoughtfully. He gently ran a hand through Giorno’s hair, finally leaning back to meet his eyes. “But I think it’s cool, to have the rarest flower in the world all to yourself. You have more than one, too.”
Giorno smirked. “It’s my private greenhouse. Don’t go spreading the word, or people may get greedy.”
“Right. And steal flowers from Don Giovanna. Nobody would risk your wrath on a rumor of flowers.”
“I suppose so,” Giorno agreed. Either way, he pressed a soft kiss to the apple of Fugo’s cheek. “No need to worry, then. I can begin my flower trafficking business without fear. Maybe I can create a Kadupul that lasts longer than a day,” he mused. “Now that would be interesting.”
“I’m going to pretend I know what that is,” Fugo sighed, closing his eyes again. Giorno used his free hand to guide him to rest against his chest. The action hurt, considering he still hadn’t recovered, but he was used to pain and Fugo’s touch made it worth it.
“Kadupul flower: the world’s most expensive flower, to some. It has cactus roots, and therefore a very short lifespan, blooming at night and wilting at dawn,” Giorno explained.
Fugo hummed in interest. “Ah.”
Giorno smiled. “Yes,” he agreed. He shifted, wrapping Fugo in his arms, moving over to give the boy space and rolling onto his side. Fugo obliged, hesitantly lying on the bed next to him, and when Giorno held him, he snuggled closer. It was obvious that he craved this almost as much as Giorno did, and the thought was refreshing. Giorno had never expected that, especially knowing Fugo’s capricious personality. But he really, really didn’t mind it.
Neither of them spoke after that, and Giorno even felt his eyes slipping shut, exhaustion weighing on him. He supposed he couldn’t be blamed if he fell asleep here, not with Fugo’s comfortable weight resting on top of him, the boy’s face pressed into his collarbone and neck, his breath ruffling the hair that fell around Giorno’s face. He was just so… comfortable. He had never felt like this, not even during the two other times that he held Fugo. There was something new here, a desperation that had emerged only after Giorno had nearly died and Fugo had been the one to witness it. Neither of them wanted to lose each other; that much was obvious.
He soon realized that Fugo wasn’t speaking because he was actually asleep. The boy’s eyes were closed, and he wasn’t moving, but Giorno had just assumed he was lying like that. Yet when Giorno gently shook him, he didn’t stir, only burying himself deeper in Giorno’s skin. Giorno couldn’t help but smile. Fugo was comfortable around him. That was impossibly reassuring.
He tried to stay awake himself, remembering what Fugo had said about someone “finishing the job” but his exhaustion was too much to bear, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was safe: Fugo was here, Mista was outside keeping watch, and the others were out searching for the assassin. The hospital was basically owned by Giorno and Passione, and nobody there would risk his wrath. He had survived countless attempts on his life already; this was nothing new. So he drifted off, the only thought left in his mind that of Fugo’s soft skin and steady breathing.