Archive of Our Own

“How’d you find me?” 

On the opposite sides of the alleyway, they leaned against the walls. With guarded postures. A cold tone and a cold gaze. Near the opening, they can hear the patrons of the bar who are coming and going. He smells of booze. A cigarette hung between his fingers. She crinkles her nose at the smoke drifting around, the wind strengthening it in her direction. Huffing, her eyes scanned over him, starting with his eyes. They’re narrowed, but the pupils aren’t dilated. Nor are the irises bloodshot. It’s a result, but not the most interesting one. 

“Bucciarati was sociable.” It’s plain and simple. A lot of people to talk to get a lot of answers, hints, tips, and tricks to go off of. “Should have left Naples if you didn’t want to be found, Fugo.” 

She wasn’t about to waste anything given. There was a routine she fell into. Fugo’s eyes narrow at her. Out of the corner of them, Trish can see he’s repeating her motions. She doesn’t avoid his gaze; let him search.

“Real specific.” He scoffs, raising the cigarette. 

Under her gaze, what was interesting was the collection of bruises against fair skin. 

“Figure it out yourself.” Trish elects to say in a low mutter, half–distracted.

There’s a sigh. The smoke blew out, irritating the split in his lip. It’s a sight that goes with the one black eye, swollen and half–lidded. He turns his head to the side where she spots the red mark on his jaw and the skin of his neck pulls. She steps close, a sudden waver passing through her. The bruises form a circle. Fingerprints left and they’re similar to the ones that are dotting up his arms. 

“What the hell–?” 

“What is it?” He interrupts, flicking the ash down onto the torn up concrete. A deep breath lifts the further bruises scattering around his collarbones before they dip beneath his shirt. “Why are you here, Trish?” 

Out of anyone they could have sent, he never expected it to be her. She wasn’t even a thought in the line–up. It’s odd. Suspicious. Red eyes steal a peek down the direction of the alleyway. Like another will be waiting. The tension isn’t hidden. Trish straightens herself. 

“Bar fighting?” 

He turns back towards her. The sound in his mind is akin to a record scratch. “What?” He asks, and the confusion is sincere, making her shrug. She gestures loosely to the state that he’s in, raising an eyebrow in wait. Fugo wonders why he’s expected to tell her a single damn thing? It’s a way for a paycheck. Play the piano some nights. Whatever. “No.” It’s sharp, but the kindest way he can put it. Even if it’s behind clenched teeth.

Because she doesn’t look any better than him himself. Fugo takes another drag. If only to cover the smirk when watching her scoff over the shrug–off. She sighs. Fine. 

“We won.” 

She lets it drop as he lets out another puff of smoke. “Great.” 

“Yeah?” She laughs despite herself. 

The giggle is fast, and high–pitched. Her face crinkles. She’s shaking. Another burst of laughter escapes. Gathering enough strength that she doubles over some. Strands of hair falling into her face, shrouding the sleepless features prevalent.

Fugo’s disturbed. 

“Surprised you’d think so.” 

A heave that is met with silence. They both knew it was coming. There was no working around it. Fugo knew the moment he saw the shadow spread out by the streetlight. Unsure of who, but did it matter? Not in his mind. Eventually, they would catch up. Fugo was on borrowed time, living through it in a quiet wait. 

He thought he had made peace with what he believed would come.

“What the hell do you want to hear?” 

Yet, the venom can’t be kept at bay. Laying down in acceptance is one thing, but given who stands in front of him; there’s a small fire that keeps itself going. 

“I still stand by it.” He hisses. Everything he said has clearly been relayed to her. How the others thought that wasn’t cruel is a wonder to him. “They didn’t know you.” It doesn’t stop him now. Cause who looks at the cause of the ruin and decides to take it? “It’s plain stupidity to sacrifice themselves for a stranger–” 

She punches him. Plain and simply said. Balled fist and everything cracking straight across his face before she can reconcile the movement. There’s a rippling pain that runs up her wrist, but she doesn’t care as she watches him stumble backwards.

“What the fuck!” The scream rippled through the air. Blood drips from his nose, and the palm of his hand burns with a cigarette mark before it drops to the ground. His head whips up, a dizzying movement as he watches Trish shake her hand out.

“Oops,” She says blankly. 

Fugo breathes harshly. The taste of blood filled his throat. Feeling thick and pathetic underneath her eyes. Her jaw is clenched when waiting. The outburst that she expects doesn’t come. Not when he leans so heavily against the wall, slumping. It makes the exhaustion prevalent, and doesn’t she just know what that feels like? There’s a drag in the gravel. Dust kicked up. Smoke drifting at her heels from a dimming cigarette. She comes to stand in front of him, matching his lean, but her chin is tipped up. They’re practically nose to nose. It’s a fight for Fugo’s face to not twitch. She breathes.

“They’re waiting for you.” She seethes lowly. Fugo doesn’t know what was more fucked, the attack or the ominous sentence that she lets hang in the air. There’s no explanation needed. 

He swallows. His mouth moved, lips trying to form the words, but there’s only a little, shallow gasp. His face falls in on itself. “You know nothing.” He finally manages to croak out. It’s quiet. Subdued. Sincere in a way that terrifies him because he’s not supposed to give it.

Not to her, of all people.

Trish doesn’t waver. An expression doesn’t shift. “Oh?” She hums. “I’m the one seeing them day in and day out.”

He’s bullshitting her. After all, she knows well how she got here. Perhaps Fugo should know. It wouldn’t hurt to fill in the details, right?

As someway, somehow, she always finds herself back here. Like she never left.

In blank, white hallways that stretch on. Appearing as nothing short of endless. Where the repetitive beeps of machines are on loop through the various rooms surrounding her. Each bearing the same design, but like windows to a dollhouse, the scenes she walks past differ. The voices of strangers speak over one another; words and tones combining. From whispers to shouts, what’s said is damn near unintelligible to make out. From cold, detached murmurs to screams of grief and items thrown in a rage, no human ever has the same reaction. Not until the silence falls.

They are nothing but static in her ears. There’s a cold sense of déjà vu. A cruel fate where the process repeats. Only the body lying in the hospital bed changes. Or bodies, in proper terms. Yet, in the end, she resides back here. Where the rot is thick, the decay is choking, and she can still hear the raspy breaths of her mother. 

Everything, everyone, moves around her in a blur, and through it, Trish keeps herself pressed against the wall. It’s brief blobs of colours fighting against the edges of her vision tinted black. She blinks, but nothing clears. 

Trish knows she needs to pay attention, spotting the blur of blonde in front of her. A faint silhouette. The dust has settled, her father is gone, and Giorno has said they’ve won. It doesn’t feel that way. In a logical portion of her mind, she can concede, but that would mean ignoring what is left hanging in the air. Giorno has a strange definition of ‘won’. Three are–? Three were–? They lost–? They nearly lost–? Trish doesn’t know how to word it.

There’s a shuffle from beside her. Mista’s crouching at the heels of her feet. His elbows propped on his knee, where he cradled his head. His hat is on the ground. Fingers twisted into dark curls. Unmoving, no longer tugging anymore like before. It makes her gut stir with guilt, but she’s glad he’s silent. That he’s not crying anymore.

He has barely spoken since carrying Bucciarati’s unconscious, shallowly breathing body out of the colosseum. His voice was shot from the screaming. Pleading. The tears ran steadily, and in the days that followed, they didn’t exactly fade. Not without force.

As from there, those days had turned into a further round of constant movement. The moment they’re in now only feels like a sentencing, and yet, Trish isn’t listening. It’s shameful, really.

She crossed her arms tighter against herself. Her throat clicked in time with the click of a shoe. She looks up. Briefly brushing her hair back, plucking a loose strand to shake her attention. Giorno pauses in front of them. His eyes drifted between them before he cleared his throat, making sure Mista met his gaze as he motioned for him to stand up. 

It’s a slow rise, Trish can imagine the numbness in his legs. Neither said anything, waiting with blank eyes. The pupils are dull. What a sight. Giorno takes a breath. 

“They’ll be okay.” 

Finality. After days of wavering conditions. It’s not an immediate reaction. Three words so simply said, but don’t manage to sink in. The meaning behind them runs deep and short circuits the brain. A harsh suck of air escapes Mista, sounding as if he has been punched.

“You’re–? All three of them–?” Mista rushes out. “Giorno, you have to be serious, please tell me–” 

It’s all so fast; choppy words escaping when Mista doesn’t fully finish one thing or another. Each thought had the words left tangled on his tongue. His voice is taking up the expanse of the hallway. It’s loud; joyous, shocked, relieved, not just a single emotion, and Trish sees him gripping Giorno’s shoulder. The tears are back. Just as the black edges to her vision.

Dancing spots. Her shoulders slumped, a hand reaching to grip the wall. It’s not…She watches Giorno squeeze Mista’s shoulder. They’re blobs again. Just muddled colours of a sweater and suit. Her fingertips are shaking; she shouldn’t think twice. She tries to curl her fists, but the twitching is too much. She tries to clasp her hands together, but there’s no strength in the grip. 

Firstly noticed.

It runs up her arm. Like the heat that flashes through her, fighting against the previous chill of her body. An uncomfortable mix she tries to breathe through, but the breath taken feels strained. Like something is gripping against her lungs, not allowing them to fully expand. Her eyebrows furrow. She tries again. The same.

Secondly noticed.

She shuffles forward, aimlessly walking at a slow pace for a hope of remedy. She swallows and gasps. Her hand flies up, gripping ‌her chest where her heart is beating too fast. The hall is spinning around her. She hunches, crouches, and tries to straighten herself. The lights are searing. Movements repeat. Pace, hunch, crouch, straighten. Her breathing doesn’t even. 

Thirdly noticed. 

“Oh, God–” She choked out, heaving this high–pitched sound like a whistle. She’s doubled-over, slowly trying to rise to take another step.

She stumbles forward, slamming into another. A startled shout slipped out. The air isn’t staying, she’s not sure it’s even passing through; it’s practically panting. Every ounce of her being feels like it is on fire. There are hands on her shoulders. Only briefly when she gives another stumble. Her weight placed on shaky legs gives out beneath her. Heavily leaning into the person beside her, she nearly slipped to the floor despite the scrambling arms trying to wrap around her. They managed to grip ‌her waist, pulling her tighter against them.

“Trish–” Mista’s voice comes out loud in an over–driven mind. Painful against her ears. 

She leans forward, Mista slowly lowering her to the floor. Where her stomach gives way, retching against the tiles. Her muscles twitch at odd angles, and she’s practically rocking on her knees. Unable to sit still. 

“Shit,” She hears. Hands frame her head, pulling her hair back. 

The sob that leaves her is violent despite the true lack of volume from the wheezing. 

“It hurts–” She gasps out. Her voice is raw. “Mista–” 

He glances back towards Giorno, who’s stood there without moving. They both noticed, but it was Mista who slowly began to follow after her, trying to get an answer through prodding she didn’t hear. 

Slowly, Giorno kneels on her other side. He analyzes her without a single flicker in his expression, humming to himself. 

“Adrenaline crash.” He says matter-of-factly, “Weeks of being in survival mode…It’s all too much.” The symptoms all line up. A chemical spike in her body that is nothing short of painful. Giorno’s lips purse in sympathy. 

He glances back down the hall. Three rooms have been set–up, permission finally having been granted after the ups and downs that were to be expected towards three people meant to be dead. Giorno went against fate, and the feeling of the rug about to be pulled from underneath him lingers within. Today is what they needed, but there’s another side of the spectrum. The fumes the other three are running on.

“Take her back.” He says blankly, “I’ll stay here.”

Mista hesitates. In a way, there’s guilt in knowing that he’s pushing Mista away despite the awareness of the state he’s been in the last few days, but there’s a nod.

“Okay,” He says.

Giorno tries to believe this is better this way. Gives him further time to process. Slowly, he helps Mista pull Trish up.

The townhouse is dark. More silent than Mista had ever known. Despite living here, it still feels like an abandoned property he’s trespassing in. It’s only been a few weeks. Everything has been left untouched. There’s a pair of shoes left turned sideways, scattered in front of the door. With Trish’s arm slung over his shoulder, and his free arm around her waist, he gently lifts her to avoid tripping. The coffee table in the living room still has a cup on it, candy wrappers spread around, and there’s still a crumpled blanket in the armchair. A book on the kitchen table, dishes in the sink.

Mista tries to push it all from his head when Trish is still gasping. Shaking against him, where her fingers dug into the fabric of his sweater. Wordlessly, he pushes the bathroom door open where she lurches. Pushing away to drop on the floor. 

Another bout of retching. 

Mista leans against the counter, wincing at the heavy gags. “Jesus.” He mutters to himself. 

The terror was always visible. How can it not be? Mista saw it so clearly, and he couldn’t blame her. She wasn’t like them. It was unfair for her to be thrown into a life such as theirs. To have to fight the way she did. 

There’s a moment of silence. A small intake of breath before a tiny cry leaves her. He believes she tries to wipe her eyes, but her arms are shaking too much. The cries double. She…just looks so tired. Slowly, Mista comes to sit beside her, he wipes at her tears with the sleeves of sweater, but the cries only continue to grow. A force behind them. 

“Mista, it hurts!” She sobs out. Her body still can’t stay still. Shaking and rocking forward. “Hurts, fuck, Mista– Guido!” 

His hand is steady on her back; she’s repeating the same words over and over like a mantra. Calling out his name like he could stop it. 

“I know.” He whispers. For a moment, he avoids looking at her. Swallowing the heavy feeling. “I’m right here.” 

He’s not going anywhere. Hasn’t throughout. 

“How is that fair?” Trish suddenly snaps, sniffling. “They were your family. You nearly lost them…” 

Mista swallows. “You heard Giorno.” He says. “They’re fine.” 

She huffs. “Mista.”

And he knows. That they’re not the same. That they’re not coming home tonight nor tomorrow. Mista feels his breath shake. 

“It’s something.” He says, and he tries to find the willpower to believe in it. His mouth feels dry. Like it’s full of cotton. 

Trish hums as she shifts. Silently, she leaned back against him. Forcing Mista to sit against the wall. His legs bracket her own. It's run its course. For now. What is left are mere twitches and a sheen of sweat against pale, clammy skin. She listens to the silence. 

“I’m sorry.” Trish whispers.

She feels the shiver. A lurch in his chest. The tears came back in a slow slip down his cheeks. 

“I tried.” He croaks out. It’s the most he’s given them. Found himself able to admit. “I thought I did it.” 

Admittedly, she falls confused. What is that supposed to mean? 

“God, that stupid rock!”

She remains unsure, but perhaps she doesn’t need to understand. She squeezes his arm, hoping that it could be a small ounce of comfort. He’ll see them soon, but he knows it won’t be the same. Everything has changed. Trish soon learns how deep that reality runs. 

As someway, somehow, she finds herself back here. Like she never left.

Another round of movements split between three rooms smelling heavily of antiseptic, and she read three medical charts from front to back until every detail was memorized. The papers crinkled from her grabbing them each time she entered. A motion she wasn’t alone in. She caught Giorno doing the same. The two would meet each other's eyes. They saw the same. Descriptions, prescriptions, each stage of recovery, and the procedures lined up that dictated the start of those notions. Gold Experience couldn’t nullify everything. In a heated part of her mind, she found it unfair. 

Regardless, everything stuck. 

He’s awake, reading a book Trish brought for herself, but it keeps his mind off the pain. There’s a wheeze in each breath he takes. A cough breaking through every now and then. Occasionally, something comes up. Trish curls into the uncomfortable couch in the corner of the room. The leather creaked with each miniscule movement she made. Giving away each toss and turn. The blanket is pulled high over her shoulder as she huffs. 

Sleep won’t find her tonight, just the same as it hasn’t found her any of the other nights. Two hour stretches are as much as she will get.

There’s another cough. She would have ignored it if it wasn’t for the bitten off gasp. Without a glance, she stands moving towards the bed, reaching for what is halfway tangled between the sheets.

“Put it down.” 

She pauses. Her hand gripped the remote where the nurse’s call button sat waiting for use. Her eyes flicked over to him. Both have blank expressions. He looks different without the makeup. 

Abbacchio raises an eyebrow. Holding out a hand. 

Trish lets it clatter against the bedside table instead, huffing.

He doesn’t let her close enough to help. His voice biting with anything she tries. He’s not her mother. The actions she did then strangely don’t transfer, but the feelings remain just the same. The need to do something. It’s the aspect of comfortability. Giving and taking. The rationality is hard for Trish to explain.

Abbacchio leans back against the pillows, going back to the book…until a box of tissues hits him square in the chest. She’s staring at him. The green eyes are practically glowing in the darkened room. He rolls his eyes, but takes one, looking away to cough up the mucus. Another wheeze escaped him. She brings over the wastebasket. Not saying anything, and neither does Abbacchio. Just a small nod she doesn’t respond to. 

He watches her move back. Pursing his lips.

“Trish.” 

She pauses. “What?” She bites out, and he smirks at the seeping annoyance. Fine. He’ll give in. Just an inch.

“Can you bring me my phone?” He asks, glancing over the edge of the book.

She blinks, moving towards the drawer where his personal belongings were placed upon him being properly transferred to this hospital. She doesn’t know much other than his body had already been collected from Sardinia before Gold Experience Requiem. Trish doesn’t want to imagine the process of waking up undoubtedly in a morgue. Giving a choking swallow, she passes it over. 

Sitting back on the couch, she spread the blanket over her knees. Head rested in her arms. Her hair feels limp against her shoulders, no longer in its updo. She thinks she looks like shit.

The rings are static. A background noise against the hum of the equipment. Until they abruptly cut off. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Abbacchio stiffen. It’s only slight before he presses a button and keeps the phone against his ear. Three rings and another cut–off. She doesn’t catch the murmur before he’s trying again. It’s the same result, but the first ring barely finishes. Fourth re–dial; this time there’s not a single ring. 

“Goddammit!” He shouts, launching the phone across the room where it clatters against the floor, spinning. 

Trish stiffens. Shoulders tense when he hits ‌the bed bar with an open hand. The metal rang against the flesh. He leans forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he looks up, he catches how her hands tighten against the blankets. Eyes wide, staring away from him. His expression shifts.

“I’m sorry.” He says lightly. 

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. That on edge feeling is returning. It burns through the exhaustion, she can’t remember what her body felt like before it was there. A world forcibly turned upside down, and the bitter taste in her mouth is lingering.

“What was it?” She breathes out. A whisper more than breathy that it trembles.

She wonders what expression is reflected when his face twitches. Her eyes flickered down at the pattern of the blanket, and her shoulders slumped, forcing a further hunch in posture. It all remains feeling so heavy. Briefly, she hears voices in the hallway. They passed by the door.

“I tried to call Fugo.” 

She watches the brief shadow crossing the light. 

“Bastard blocked me.” 

Trish doesn’t mean to snort. Is Pannacotta Fugo anything but a runner, she wonders? It's the only quality she has managed to know. She glances at him, and just like he did, she sees through him. An eyebrow raising.

“You’re worried about him?” She asks.

The surprise is evident in her voice, and it’s better than the previous scorn. It’s nearly a distraction. She didn’t see Abbacchio and Fugo interact much before the younger turned tail and ran. The only thing was their mission to Pompeii, where they both returned with tense statues and eyes that wouldn’t meet the others. Trish hadn’t thought much of it. Out of anyone in the team, Abbacchio always struck her as being on the edge of the group with how closed off he was. It was a beginning perception. One that she looks back on now. 

Narancia wasn’t crying for nothing, after all. His screams were piercing. Each night, the pleas echo in her mind. There had to be some type of meaningful relationship there to get that type of reaction. Nor was he the only one. Days ago, Mista was clinging tight to the man who had been the first to wake. Where she expected a shove, she witnessed a pat on his shoulder. 

Abbacchio huffs now. Doesn’t directly answer, but Trish knows. He’s worried. It makes her curious. Looking at the night sky through a window, Abbacchio shakes his head to himself. 

“The trail’s too wide to find him through Moody Blues anymore.” He says out loud. Voice venomous. 

He’s not the first, nor the last to find a hospital room to feel like a cage. Far from it. Morale is hard to keep in an environment such as this. Her mother struggled just the same.

He sighs. “Where are the others?” Change of subject. He looks over, seeing a blank stare. “Trish.” 

She jolts, blinking. The image of familiar brunette hair fading from her mind. Taking the blank eyes of a pale face that stared at the wall away. Her final weeks. “Hm?” She choked out, forcing her mind to catch up. “Mista’s with Narancia, and Giorno…has been switching between his and Bucciarati’s rooms.” 

Only Narancia has woken. Briefly. She keeps that part silent. 

He hums. “Guess I was the last choice, huh?” He gives a humorless chuckle, lying back in the bed. “You can go, kid.” 

Trish stares at him. It all moves so slow around her. The unblinking eyes make the shadows morph; they can almost see another in the bed. The teasing nature drops. 

“Go home.” Abbacchio says, gesturing towards the door, but Trish shakes her head. 

“No,” She whispers. “I want to stay.” 

Needs to. 

“Didn’t you hear? I’m out of the woods. At least partially. I don’t need your damn hovering.” He says it like conditions don’t change. Like doctors can’t be wrong. It’s at the drop of a hat. “In fact, tell that to Giorno and Mista on your way out.” He never asked for company, yet the three of them keep rotating and circling around. “Go, Trish.” 

Like that, he turns to his side. Wincing at the sudden, sharp jolt that runs up the length of his spine. He waits for it to pass before he adjusts. Annoyingly slow. Side sleeping in his condition comes with certain restrictions that only make him huff. Quick to regret when another cough escapes him. Finally, he pulls the blanket up around his shoulder. Listening to the quiet silence of the room.

She’s still here.

He knows that before she even calls his name.

“Abbacchio?” 

He stays silent, closing his eyes to deter her. Hoping to, but there’s a rustle in the leather. A waver of one’s breath. Like she’ll call out again, but there’s hesitation. Dammit.

“What?” He asks gruffly.

“Can I see Moody Blues?” 

He opened his eyes. His eyebrows furrowed. “No.” 

“Please.” 

The tone is so small. It makes him pause. She’s looking at him through a haze. He doesn’t understand, but maybe he doesn’t have to. There’s a method to the reason. On top of this all, Abbacchio’s not that careless and callous to ignore that the prospects of Stands are all brand new to her. He hasn’t seen Spice Girls since that fight on the plane where he can admit he was impressed in how well she managed. After all, she won. They would have been fucked without her. Now, it’s over, and he’s sure she doesn’t know where to go from here. What sense to make of it all.

As such, he sighs. 

There’s a faint whirl as his Stand appears. Abbacchio keeps the strain it takes quiet as he slowly lifts his head. He hasn’t seen his own Stand since Sardinia. Moody Blues stands in the middle of the room, looking dull and faded. She meets Trish’s eyes, whose own stare back widened. That sunken expression lightly fading as the fascination grows. 

“How does she work?” Trish whispers, standing to approach. Taking in the metallic shine of blue and purple. The tones of silver, and each radio–like feature.

Silently, Abbacchio gives another command. 

The Stand moves past her, settling on the couch. There’s a whirl, like static feedback before the click, and the body morphs. Taking on her appearance of just five minutes ago. The only difference being her eyes remaining with the look of a speaker, and there's a timer on her forehead. It’s all broken away by a flicker, the sound of her voice slowing. The Stand disappears and Abbacchio has to clench his eyes shut through the pain. He hears the click of shoes turning his way.

“I–” 

She goes to try to say, but he’s shaking his head. “Don’t.” He demands. He doesn’t want to hear any type of apology. 

There’s a pause. Without a word, she moved back. The exhaustion is heavy, but it only drags one of them down. She watched his face relax. Slow breaths leaving him. Silently, she comes back over to his side. Trish makes sure the blanket is covering all of him before she grabs the book to place on the bedside table. Trading it for a hair tie. She pulls his hair back away from his face. Her mind remains spinning. 

Fugo slipped through the cracks. It wasn’t intentional, but it happened. 

He was lost in the chaos. Put on the back burner, and it’s a strange thought to realize when Trish feels absolutely nothing behind it. What could she? Fugo made it clear his thoughts on her, and obviously, there’s nothing of the past that can be changed. Yet, it is easy for her to say, ‘Let him go,’ because just as he didn’t know her, she didn’t know him. That can’t be said for the others. 

Trish can’t place her feelings onto them.

She tried to let it go. To stay out of it. There’s nothing she needs to understand when it doesn’t concern her. 

Narancia is the second to wake up. With hazy purple eyes filled with pain and exhaustion. Though his face was partially hidden in the crook of Mista’s arm, being held close to the older’s chest, his gaze was slowly dragging around the room, lingering for a moment on both Trish and Giorno. He murmurs something so quiet that even Mista has to lean close.

“What was that?” He asks, waiting for Narancia to process it. A minute goes by before Narancia shifts in his arms. Face fully hidden. 

“...Panna.” 

It’s even quieter, but Mista hears, and Trish and Giorno only know when he grows angry about it in the privacy of the new estate. Giorno’s the one who tries to spin a logical twist to it, an argument developing that Trish zones out of, staring at the light rain hitting the window from the ledge of the window seat. 

It clears up by morning, a hazy fog left over the city, and Trish isn’t hesitating to slip down the porch steps. The hood of the raincoat she slipped from Narancia’s closet of his new room, shielding her as the rubber rattled from the force of the wind. She doesn’t know where to start, but finds that it doesn’t matter. She’ll take the time. 

For them. If only. Where does that leave her now?

“Turn it off.” 

The static grows, a fuzzy hiss coming in and out; crackling. At the turn of the dial, the distorted guitar solo forcibly comes to an end. With a snap, like a book closing. The high voltage faintly buzzes through the room, holding a kinder close–out than what they gave the song.

What’s left is nothing but a silence that is deafening. 

Two figures; One at the kitchen counter, her hand lingering against the radio, and another in a chair, his nails digging into the palm of his hand when his fist curls tighter. Two pairs of eyes look out opposite sided windows. The golden light is the same in each. Streaming streaks against the glass, making white tiles glow. 

Only one allows for their gaze to linger, stepping back to turn away from watching the sway of the flowers in the garden.

“What happened?” 

A voice flows through, passing him by. 

She didn’t expect an answer. Getting him to come here was already a challenge. With nails that dug into the skin of his wrist, their arguments spanned for street blocks. His voice lost itself on the porch. Now, he watches the light hit the trees. It’s quiet around him. No…nothing. No carrying voices edging on laughter or shouts, nothing left on tables and floors. An unlived in space made without him. There’s a scratch of a chair pulled back. 

Her palm is warm against his cheek.

Contrasting with a tight grip forcibly angling up his face. He feels the blood of his nose drip to the back of his throat. The breaths caught, coming out as wheezes around the metallic taste he’s forced to swallow down. It comes with something bitter. She stares down at him with cold eyes. 

“What did you say?” Fugo asks quietly. Nasally. 

There are bruises against the both of them. Hers faded. A week on the run, after all. Won is an odd word for her to have used. 

She hums. “What happened?” 

The cloth is damp and lukewarm as she presses against milky white skin tainted with the blood she wipes away. His side of a golden beam comes through the curtain, faintly highlighting features she barely got a chance to know. 

It’s the only question she can find herself able to ask through the sea of them. This question is like a roll of thunder. It’s low, and a warning, but it’s passable. Unlike another, such as prodding towards the phone calls, is a strike of lightning. Finality, and unable to go ignored.

He blinks, lips twitching. She feels it against the cloth. “Staying back wasn’t enough.” His smirk is hollow.

There was a loyalty still questioned, and the answers were assumed without a chance of ever being listened to, but that’s just Passione. Nothing new through the value of submission. Where obedience keeps the cracks from growing and one is underneath another’s thumb. It’s a scapegoat situation, and he made an easy target.

Trish pauses, putting together the pieces. “You ran again.” 

Through what’s voice, Fugo waits for something more to come, believing he’s aware of what.

“You could have given us up.” 

A belief being wrong. Fugo straightens himself in the chair. Slipping from Trish’s grasp. She lets him, leaning back. Her father was on their tails, yes, and information was relatively shared, but their betrayal still could have been an upper hand for Fugo. 

“You didn’t come after us.” At any time, that order could have been given. “You–...You could have used it to your advantage. Why didn’t you?” 

Does that need an answer? He scoffs, shaking his head. “It was never…” 

He turns away. 

“Never what?” She scoffs. “You said you stood by it; you had an opportunity that you didn’t take. I’m trying to make sense of it!” 

“It’s not any of your business!” Fugo snaps. Standing up with a force that the chair hits the wall behind him. He faces the kitchen. An unfamiliar layout. 

The estate was bigger than the townhouse, secluded. Trish had asked where it came from, but Giorno didn’t respond. A property of Passione, that much she could figure out, but if there were any traces of her father then they were all gone upon the first step she took in. Perhaps that was the aspect of paranoia kicking in when she wandered the halls, trying to find anything. As if finding a single thing would mean he was still here. Lurking and waiting. Ready to prove that what Giorno said was a lie. 

Is it really that easier for her mind to believe that than the thought of victory? 

“You weren’t meant to be here.” Fugo continues, a rough hand dragging through his hair. 

She swung her legs over to rest on the chair he had just abandoned. “This is getting pathetic.” 

His face tinted red. A jaw clenched until the teeth grind, and just as she expected, he goes to hit the table they stand on opposite sides of. However, the crack against meant to come never does. Not when his fist bounces, the weightless feeling had his eyebrows furrow. He reaches out. Elastic beneath his fingertips. 

She’s not looking at him, but Spice Girl is. Over her shoulder. He backs away despite the two being far from close. 

“What the hell?” He asks. 

Don’t give her a response, she isn’t going to give him one. She stands, throwing the rag against his chest. “You’re giving yourself an aneurysm…Not any of your business, Panna.” 

The door opens. They listen to the shuffle.

Mista is the first to enter, pausing immediately. 

Giorno comes up from behind him. “Oh.”

The reactions were expected. Neither says anything to one another before Mista turns away, exiting. Giorno lingers there, looking between the two of them. 

“I’m unsure of what this is.” He says. “I imagine there’s a reason I’m not privy to. That said, Trish, I would like to talk to you later regarding the news we got from the hospital this morning.” He nods her way before he likewise turns away.

Fugo stares after them. His throat bobbing. 

“I’m not staying.” He whispers. “I can’t.” 

She smiles slightly. “Just for tonight.” 

Sleeping on the floor of her room is an oddity in itself, but stubbornness prevails. She sits on the edge of her bed, listening to the open–mouthed breaths of sleep. All thanks to an additional bruise. Glancing away from the sprawled form, she stared at the photo on her bedside drawer. A nurse took it. Framed is her mother laying in a hospital bed, holding a sleeping Trish against her form. She glances towards the hung mirror. Pink hair and green eyes. Trish swallows heavily.

It’s back to a certain schedule. After all; someway, somehow.

Abbacchio is going to shoot himself. Straight in the head. No regrets. A human should never become this familiar with boredom. His arm is slung over his eyes, breathing deeply. There’s a faint irritation that comes from the healing scars on his chest. Silently, he goes to adjust.

Looking up.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” He jumps.

Narancia didn’t make a single sound when standing in the doorway. Even once caught, he’s standing like a statue, and Abbacchio doesn’t know what’s more disturbing. He sighs, waving ‌his hand. There’s not even a reaction as he comes forward. Slow movements that stumble like his joints are locked up. Abbacchio has to grab him by the arm to help pull him onto the bed, knowing exactly what he wanted. He rolls his eyes about it, but passes the blanket to Narancia, feeling him curl into himself. His blinks become slower. Abbacchio doesn’t know what to make of it. 

He shuffles toward the edge of the bed, slowly lowering his legs.

“Aw.” 

He jumps once more, looking over his shoulder. “What the hell is wrong with both of you!” He snaps, glaring at Trish.

She hums, acting as if it’s a laugh before she comes over, leaving a new book on the bedside table and pressing a kiss to Narancia’s cheek in greeting. There’s no response.

“What are you doing?” She turns his way, watching Abbacchio grip the bar of the bed, scooting himself closer to the edge.

“Standing.” 

“Is that–?” He’s up before she finishes, snickering when she comes around the bed with wide eyes. 

He blinks away the black spots in his vision, steadying himself on shaky legs. “I got evicted from my bed.” He glances over at her. “I’m not going to break, kid. Been injured before and couldn’t afford to sit on my ass.” He needs to do something before he goes insane. 

The step is small as he pushes away from the bed. There’s a small cough that leaves him, ragged, but he pushes on. 

“First visit.” He comments. 

God, she’s watching every step he takes. He’s simply walking to the window, pulling the curtain open.

"Why did you join Passione?" 

He stays there. "Why?" 

"Answer the question, Abbacchio." She grits out, but there's nearly a pleading tone in her voice.

He watches the clouds move overhead. Staying silent. 

"Do you regret it?" 

She knows he's not playing her game, but there's an empire of her father's she's getting sight into, and it really makes her wonder about these men she barely knows. Abbacchio crosses his arms over his chest. Feeling the pain radiating from the lacerations underneath the bandages. Trish watches, turning towards Narancia. His eyes are shut, face blank. Despite the blanket, he's shivering. 

"Fine," She says simply, letting it go. “I need to tell you both something. Different.” 

“Going to have to just be me.” He gestures to Narancia, who has most of the blanket pulled over his face. “Now, he can sit on his ass without a problem.”

That would usually get a rise out of him, but there’s nothing. Abbacchio straightens from the window ledge. Another step taken when his knees buckle. A pain runs through him. 

“Fuck!” He stumbles forward. Trish rushes over.

She tries to steady him, breathing through the strain of the dead weight leaning against her. His hand tightened against her shoulder, eyes squeezing shut. Trish goes to move, nails digging into his arm, but Abbacchio shakes his head. Doubled–over. Silently, she paused, giving him a moment as she bit her lip.

“Abbacchio,” She says softly. “You do realize…You died.”

His body was mangled. Organs and bones obliterated. Blood covered every inch of that rock, the sand below was clumping together. No one comes back from that the way they were before. Stands be damned. 

“I know.” He admits.

His tone is something she’s never heard before from him. Her eyes softened at the look reflected. Close to devastated and despondent together. His lip wobbled with a low sigh. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He rolls his eyes. “For being right?” Nothing’s the same. He glances over his shoulder. Narancia hasn’t moved. He’s not even looking their way. 

Simply said, he’s been lethargic. Perhaps Leone could deal with that if he managed even a few words, but he doesn’t talk. If it’s not sleeping for a majority of a day, then it’s blank stares at a person or wall. Doesn’t help when Mista lets slip that he cries at night. Abbacchio can’t tell you what’s going through his mind. That’s not even touching on…

Helping him sit back on the bed, Abbacchio reached to ruffle the boy’s hair. At least there’s a small noise he gets in response. It makes the edges of his lips quirk up. 

“So, what is it?” He asks. 

“Bucciarati’s awake.”

Scream it to the mountains, she knows Mista would. However, the door remains closed for the time–being. Allowing time for him to adjust, Giorno had said, when waking up was startling. Confusing. Giorno bore a red mark against his cheek where the man had lashed out in fear, dazed. 

Trish could only imagine the pain, she tells Fugo.

She relays everything back to him in the silence of her bedroom. After all, Bucciarati would have wanted him to know. So, she doesn’t think twice.

And it stings. And Fugo feels something twist deep inside ‌himself. 

Lying on the floor that night, his eyes closed to the sight of the dock. Lips are moving all around him. Choices are being made. The screams torn from him are equally silent. There are only the waves, and Narancia pleading for a decision to be made for him. Fugo can’t see him, just a shout piercing through his ears. He feels himself shaking. Fugo didn’t remember that. Unlike the gasps, ragged and painful, his lungs choked.

Bucciarati was staring at him. His face didn’t flicker as Fugo challenged their thinking with growing desperation. Not seeing the logic. Instead, Bucciarati smiled at him. It was small, but one he knows all too well.

It always comforted him. 

Fugo was scared. Who could have thought? Fugo was a coward who didn’t step on that boat because of a selfish desire, and Bucciarati smiled at him before he left. 

For a long time, he sat on that dock. The tears streamed without a single noise being made.

Her palm is warm against his cheek. 

The tears are being brushed away as there’s a soothing shush coming from in front of him. A figure he cannot see through the blur, but he knows. It’s a wavering vision of pink coming from a darkening silhouette. A head tilted and eyes half–lidded, differing from the narrowed appearance usually sent his way. 

“I’m sorry.” Fugo is already choking out, feeling his cheeks reddening in embarrassment. 

He tries to flinch away, but her hold remains steady. It doesn’t tighten. There’s another swipe of her thumb despite the tears that keep falling. It burns him with all he has, but he has never been good at holding back his emotions. He always tried, believing he was doing right for the people who needed him to, but they could never be bottled up in full. It’s not the way a human works. 

There’s not a response. She never tends to give one. Only settles herself near him, uncaring of the wetness of his cheeks. 

Fugo doesn’t know where this truly began, but the nights are getting harder to be able to get through. The nights she keeps convincing him to stay through when the door only looks more appealing. Yet, he listens to her. Like his feet were glued to the rug on her floor. 

Her hand withdrew from his cheek, but Trish’s eyes remained pinned on him. He pushed himself up, sitting against the wall. She watches him take a shaky breath. Watches how his Adam’s apple bobs with the harsh swallow, and sees how red–rimmed his eyes remain. His feet tangled in the blanket she threw to him when he refused to use his own room. 

It was supposed to be temporary. He wasn’t supposed to be back here. This home was supposed to be made without him because it was the only logical thing they should do. You don’t reward a traitor, much less do you welcome them back with trusting arms. 

She stands. Returning to her bed, but she stops just short of it when she hears a faint thump. Out of the corner of her eye, he too was standing. 

“You won’t do it.” She whispers. The door won’t open. His shoes aren’t going to be collected. She doesn’t need to give anything more as she lies back down.

He lingers in the middle. His chest slowly rises. She stares up at the ceiling, listening to the small shuffle. He lowers himself back down. Knees thumping against the floor. For a moment, she stays silent, listening to the sniffs he makes. 

“Would it help to see them?” She asks. An offer extended before. “I’m heading there tomorrow–” 

“No.”

It’s an answer without a single thought put into it. Said into the silence. Where only the crickets chirp and they hear the faint tune of the radio in Giorno’s office upstairs. He says it before the words can even have the chance to sink in. A decision solidified, and it makes Trish’s flare. 

“Are you serious?” She hisses, propping herself up against the mattress. Fugo looks at her coldly. She felt her own face flushing red. “Can you stop the self–pity party bullshit–!”

“I don’t want to see them.” 

He doesn’t blink when he says it. She pauses. A small croak leaves her when the words die out. 

“I’ve been here for three years. Since I was 13,” He whispers. “In those three years, Bucciarati never failed to make sure it got through my head to stay loyal. For Passione, not to him. For three years, he spoke so highly of this organization, and within a blink, it changed.” His voice cracks when he says it. He snaps his fingers. “Everything I thought I knew, that I was told, no longer upheld, and I had seconds to make up my mind. I–...I couldn’t do it, Trish, and I tried to reason that you were to blame because it was easier that way. Because being mad at Bucciarati, feeling betrayed by him, made me hurt."

His eyes are burning once more.

"I’ve never been hurt by him before.” 

It's an openness she never expected. 

“It wasn’t your fault.” He says. Everything keeps spilling out. “Is that what you set out to hear? Is that why you went after me?” 

“To stroke my own ego? Go fuck yourself.” She rolls her eyes.

His lips tremble. He laughs; his eyes lighting up. Another tear slips. She frowns.

“Did you feel trapped?” She whispers. 

Fugo scoffs, wiping at his eyes. “What? Didn’t you know it’s a dream to be in the mafia?” Trish can’t even be angry at the attitude when it just sounds so broken to her ears. “I made my choice.” 

Then why do you sound so bitter? She nearly wants to ask, but no one wants to be too close to the venom. Perhaps that’s not the way she should be looking at. Because deep down, despite not knowing him much, she wonders if he ever got the chance. If any of them did. 

“It wasn’t your fault.” He says it again. Adds nothing else to it.

Trish stares forward, catching the reflection in the mirror. Pink hair and green eyes. “I just thought…” She sighs. Her head fell forward, hanging.

Fugo doesn’t push. 

“I’m sorry.” They both say late in the night. They both don’t respond to the other. 

There’s something digging against her ribs, feeling like claws. At some point, that mirror has to come down.

In the light of the early morning, she focused on tying the ribbon against the flowers. The paper wrapped around, crinkling beneath. Giorno waits for her, leaning against the kitchen doorway. 

“Mista said he used to have White Roses in his office.” 

Fitting.

When speaking, Mista walks ahead of them the whole time. His shoulders are loose, with a small smile framing his face. It’s been awhile since she’s seen it. Anywhere close to it. There’s something relieving in it, one she believes Giorno feels the same about from the little, near inaudible sigh that comes at her side. 

He may walk ahead, but he pauses just short of the door. A flicker in an expression. 

Giorno comes forward, knocking out of courtesy before he enters, leaving them to stand in the doorway. From there, they can only see the strands of black hair sticking up. The blanket is pulled high. Though it’s not the first to be noticed. It's wheezing. The amount of wires running into the blanket. 

Giorno murmurs something to him before reaching out, slowly easing the man to lie on his back. “I know.” He says out loud when there’s a bitten off noise of pain. A body bucking up as Giorno makes sure none of the wires are tangled or laid on. He steps back some, giving Bruno air as he breathes deeply, shaking. Still close enough to brush his hair back for him.

He turns their way, motioning for them to come in. Stepping back entirely for Mista to take his place. 

“Bucciarati,” He whispers, shuddering before he is practically collapsing, pulling Bucciarati into a hug. 

“Careful, Mista,” Giorno says, but there’s a small smile when the older man rests a hand on his shoulder.

Then, Giorno turns her way. A silent command. 

Trish enters slowly, smiling at him. It’s small and tired. “Hi, Bucciarati.” 

With Mista’s help, he straightens himself. His eyes flickered towards her, remaining clouded. Giorno steps back in, reaching to squeeze his hand as a reminder of the present, leaning in. What he says comes out low, going unheard by Trish and Mista. Trish shifts, adjusting the bouquet in her arms as she goes to come closer. 

Bucciarati flinches. 

He’s staring straight at her and flinches.

Trish pauses. Her body is going cold. The smile dropped. She didn’t see that right. A lie when his eyes are cold looking at her. Giorno is jumping in to run interference. His voice kept inaudible like it’s a secret. Like she isn’t meant to hear. Call it the pain medication, say it's the sudden wake–up, she still turns away; hearing Mista calling out for her. She lets the flowers fall to the ground, becoming trampled under her boots as she pushes forward into the hallway. A fast pace picked up until she was running.

Weaving through the white halls until the voices behind her fade.

He’s sitting on her bed, distracted and flipping through a magazine. Fugo’s foot tape against the ground, sighing to himself. His eyes are still puffy. He looks in the mirror. The bruises are fading. All that’s left are the ones around his neck, indicating strangulation. Piece of shit capo.

Down the hall a door opens, making him blink in confusion when it’s midday. He hadn’t expected anyone back until at least late evening. His shoulders rose, a blank gaze at the magazine as he strained to listen. Footsteps rush past the door. He stands on-edge. He hears slamming. The sound of things being thrown, clattering against the floor.

“What the hell?” He mutters. 

The bathroom is straight across and he catches sight of Trish slamming the hair dryer to the tiles below, jumping when the plug hits her in the foot, but the pain barely recognizes through her focus turning to another drawer. It jams. Her tugs are growing harsh.

“Come on, piece of shit–!” 

It gives way, making her stumble back, hitting the wall behind as the items spill. 

“What are you doing?” Fugo’s voice is cutting through the crash. 

She shakes her head, leaning toward the ground. Finally, finding what she was looking for. He steps forward, trying to see, but finds it doesn’t matter when it’s shoved against his chest. 

“Shave it.” 

He stares at her. “What?” His voice comes out biting. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

Kicking things aside, she comes to lean against the counter, brushing her hair back and tugging at the strands. That’s when he sees it. Her face is red. Lashes lined with tears. He feels himself falter.

“Trish.” 

“Just shave it, please.” She gestures towards her hair. 

Fugo’s hand tightens against the razor that had been shoved against him. She’s not looking at him.

“Why?” He asks quietly. Slowly, he places it down, coming closer. “What happened?” He leans against the counter with her. 

She sobs. Rough and choking. It takes him aback. A reaction he hadn’t ever seen from her. He doesn’t know her. Fugo is aware of that, but he’s learning, and part of that being the firecracker personality that comes with her. She’s like Narancia in a way, keeps him on his toes and bounces off of his bullshit quick. It’s interesting, he can’t deny that. Just like Narancia, it makes him strangely drawn to her. 

“I look like him.” She chokes out. This side of her…he doesn’t know what to make of it. 

He’s smart enough to know. His lips pursed together. “Trish–” 

“I look just like him, and Bucciarati flinched, I’m just–...I’m just a reminder.” Her eyes are blurry as she stares straight at her reflection. “He can’t be the only one. I’m the reason. That’s what you said, right? Everything that happened–” 

“I took it back last night, didn’t I?” Fugo cuts in, voice sharp. 

She looks at herself. Her relatives always did wonder over where her features came from. A facial structure of her mother's, but Diavolo won everything else. Hair, eyes, the way her mother said she was frankly too paranoid at times. She needed people to prove trust. Suspicious in every beginning interaction. It didn’t guarantee many friends. 

“I don’t know where I’m going to go.” She suddenly whispered in a shaky breath. 

He chuckles like it’s a joke. “They’re not just going to kick you out.” 

“You don’t know that!” She shouted, briskly wiping at her eyes. “What Bucciarati says goes.” 

The mission is over. It's easy to let her go. To wash their hands of her and push her from their minds like that will be the answer to sleeping again at night. Her eyes burned further. 

Fugo stays silent, glancing at the razor. “Were you serious about shaving your hair?” 

She glares at him out of the corner of her eye, but part of her protective posture deflates some. “I only see him when I look in the mirror. I thought…” 

He holds it up. Waiting. 

And so, pink strands joined the mess below. A low buzz against her ears as she watches the locks fall. Fugo is behind her, and she hadn’t even asked if he knew how to do this. Her lips quirked up. He can see it in the reflection. The dripping tears highlighted. As the buzzing cuts off, Trish turns to face him. 

Fugo stares down at her, reaching to brush stray pieces away from her face. The touch tickles, making her nose scrunch. 

“You’re different from him.” He whispers. 

She scoffs lightly. “How do you know?” 

He’s quiet. “I just feel like I do.” 

Her lip trembles again. He pulls her against him, arms around her, as Trish’s face hides in his shoulder. She held tight, fists tightening against the fabric of his shirt. 

“I thought he would be different.” She croaks. "I'm scared I'll be just like him." 

Fugo frowns. The words are so familiar to someone such as him. "For 15 years, you didn't know him. He didn't raise you, that was all on your mother. She nurtured your moral compass, taught you right from wrong, and what compassion actually is to the others around you. That doesn't just fade because of your father's presence. You understand just as anyone else where he was wrong. That says more than you realize, Trish." His hands are warm against her back. "You're in charge." Nor is she alone.

One arm adjusts until it's around his neck, pulling him closer to her. In that moment, she remembers. How he was the first to give her condolences. How he promised her safety within their team. She doesn't want him to leave. Being told of a father she never meant, there was a flicker of hope against the apprehension. She just wanted someone. Still does. It comes out as a hollow cry into Fugo’s shoulder. 

There was never a time to grieve. She always had to keep moving. At 15–years–old, she loses a lot. In a way no child can ever comprehend fully. A whole world flipped upside down, and she doesn’t know what direction it’s going to take next. 

The mirror is removed while she sleeps. Fugo says nothing the next morning. Sat at the kitchen table, specifically waiting for her.

At least someone has finally managed to sneak him his headphones and CD player. The light melody flowed, muffling the beeps at his side. Abbacchio looks out the window, watching the spring storm. His eyes half–lidded. Sleep could be easy.

“How many times do I have to repeat myself?!” Key word; could be. As Mista’s voice travels. “Narancia, you have to–!” 

“He’s fine.” Abbacchio’s voice almost sounds bored as he says it. He looks their way to where Mista stands over Narancia’s curled up form on the couch. His cold response tore a sound of frustration from Mista’s throat.

“No, he’s not; he’s not even supposed to be up!” 

“Mista, I’m not repeating myself!” There’s the raise in temper he’s come to know. There’s a pause in the room.

“Fine. Do what you want, I don’t give a shit anymore.” He scoffs.

He leaves. Just like that. The door is slamming shut, and Abbacchio can see the flinch Narancia gives. The saddest eyes reflected. Abbacchio frowns, looking back to the window. His fingers tapped against the CD player. 

“Been fighting since you were ten.” He mutters. “I can’t blame you for being exhausted, Nara.” There's a blink he gets in response. 

The door opens. 

Abbacchio turns. His eyes slightly widened. Looking up and down, pining themselves to the buzz cut. He snorts.

“Well, someone will be learning their lesson that you stay far from the hair during any breakdown.” 

Trish glares at him. “Having fun making an ass of yourself?” 

He shrugs. Adjusting against the pillow, feeling a tug on the cord of his headphones before he grabs it. Trish enters, placing stuff down. Another kiss on Narancia's cheek in greeting. He watches her do it all, his cheek pressing into the palm of his hand as he hums slightly. 

“You know Bucciarati’s on drugs, right?” He raises an eyebrow, watching her deflate at him knowing. Mista the snitch. “A lot of them. Give him time.” 

She looks at him. Blank. Placing a book on the bedside table with more force than necessary. “I have something.” She ignores what he’s trying to say. Walking back to the door with a loose gesture of her hand. 

Colour him curious. 

“Finally good enough for your attention?” 

The figure comes around the frame, keeping himself pressed there; he smirks.

Fugo shifts. A shuffle on the balls of his feet, and his eyes can barely stay on Abbacchio for long. Looking anywhere but at him. Abbacchio feels his face drop as he takes in the sight of him. The hunch in his posture. How he closes in on himself. Like he’s brand new all over again.

“Get over here.” He frowns at the tiny flinch.

Yet, Fugo listens, inching his way closer until he stands at the side of the bed. His head tilted downwards all the same. Silently, Abbacchio reaches out, brushing Fugo's bangs back from where they have fallen in his face. His hand lingers. Abbacchio’s thumb lightly tracing the scarred over cut on Fugo’s cheek before his hand is dropping to rest on the boy's shoulder. 

Then, Abbacchio chuckles. It's a low rumble in his chest. 

“Fuck, you're okay.” He says it to himself. Not trying to hide the relief in his voice. Abbacchio squeezes his shoulder. Tight. As if to confirm Fugo’s really there after all.

“I am,” The boy whispers. His voice strained. “I'm fine, Abba.” Somehow, the nickname finds itself to be in an even quieter tone. 

There's a tremble in his lips. 

“I saw your call.” Fugo choked out. “I wanted to answer.” 

He doesn’t need to ask. “Just wait until I can stand.” A kick straight in the ass. 

“Try it.” 

The laugh comes out barking. There’s a shuffle on the couch.

Fugo looks over, spotting familiar black hair poking out. He hesitates. Making the decision to come here remained hard despite the way he waited. There was an undeserving factor fighting against anger. The hurt. Yet, that night, holding Trish close to him as she tired herself out from crying; he thought of the phone calls. How Trish said Narancia called out for him some days. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing another family, but staying away makes it come true in a different way than he previously thought. A realization that made his heart sink.

Slowly, he comes to kneel by the couch. A tear slips. He rests a gentle hand on his shoulder, feeling the way he stirs beneath his fingers. A low murmur left him. The weight pulls him from half-sleep, but the exhaustion is so prevalent when he opens his eyes. There’s a flicker of pain in his face. Fugo waits for the fog to clear, watching the flash when it clicks.

Narancia goes to scramble up. Sluggish and slow.

“Hey, hold on.” Fugo speaks to him gently, reaching to help sit him up. 

Narancia only takes it as an opportunity. He wraps his arms around him, holding tight. Nothing said in a way that makes Fugo worry. He looks back slightly, catching Trish’s eyes, who only motions for him to focus on the moment. 

A small sound leaves him as he rests his head against Fugo’s shoulder. The tears are dripping. 

“Panna…” He chokes out. 

Fugo rests a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. “I’m right here.” He whispers.

Trish shuffles on her feet. Her smile is small. She glances towards the door, biting her lip. She may not know what comes next, but the month’s been hell enough to not stand through it.