Work Text:
Do you look like me, do you feel like me?
Do you turn into your effigy?
Do you dance like this,
Forever?
“Mista, how can you tell if you have a crush on someone?”
Mista, who had been absent-mindedly tapping his piece of cake in a small plastic container with his disposable fork, looked up at Fugo from across the room. While it was inside a turtle, it was surprisingly spacious, considering. Narancia, Giorno, and Bruno were out on a mission to gather supplies or something—Fugo hadn’t caught what, exactly, they were doing—leaving Fugo, Mista, and Trish to rest. Abbacchio, meanwhile, was guarding the turtle, and pointedly ignoring the conversation inside Coco Jumbo’s spacious room. Trish, napping, rested beneath a green, fleece blanket, still, save for the gentle, undulating breaths of a young girl mid-dream.
“...Is there a reason for this question?”
“No, not at all. Just for the sake of, uh, research.” Fugo said this a bit too haltingly for it to sound natural; he kicked himself mentally. Why was he so bad at lying?!
From beneath his arrow cap, Mista’s eyebrows furrowed. “Well. Uh, I mean, it feels like… butterflies? I know it’s cliche but, like, hmm… I dunno, whenever I see a hot chick walkin’ down the street, my brain goes bam, I like her, and wanna get to know her better. You know how that feels, right?”
Fugo scoured his brain for any instances of what Mista was describing. Did he ever feel that way when looking at a girl? When looking at Trish, he certainly didn’t; if anything, he gazed on the poor girl with sympathy… and also wondered if she was cold, wearing a tube top and nothing else. Not that he was one to talk, considering his shirt was rife with holes. But, that was beside the point.
“I don’t.” Fugo said plainly.
“ Never?” Mista practically fell out of his chair in surprise, and, having said this a bit louder than intended, looked over at the sleeping Una girl, his hands cupping his mouth. Seeing she (thankfully) hadn’t awoken, Guido continued in what could only be generously described as a “stage whisper.” “—So, you’re sayin’ you’ve never had the hots for a chick before?! Do you have eyes , Mozzarella?”
He glared at Mista. “Pannacotta.” While it amused Mista to no end, Pannacotta despised the nicknames he gave him, and, frankly, was sick of it. The peak of comedy for Guido Mista was picking random cheese to call Fugo instead of Pannacotta, his actual name. It took every ounce of mental fortitude for Fugo to not take the fork out of Mista’s hand and shove it up the fashion-disaster in a crop top sweater’s nostrils. Oh, it was tempting, it was.
“I clearly have better-working eyes than you do, since your get-up is an eyesore.” While likely meaner than Mista deserved, the nickname thing had put Fugo on edge. He deserved to snip a little. It was justified.
Mista ignored the barbed retort, barreling on, voice getting louder and louder. “No, wait, but really? Not even—” He turned his gaze to make sure that their “precious cargo,” the Boss’s daughter, was still asleep. She didn’t stir. So, in yet another stage-whisper, he said, “...Trish? You two are the same age, right? You’d be perfect for each other.”
Fugo thought about this. Logically, Mista did have a point. Outside of her snobbiness, Trish had shown, even in their limited time together so far, that she was, in fact, quite smart. She mostly kept to herself, like Fugo once had, and was, surprisingly enough, getting closer to Bruno as well, who had seemingly—likely unbeknownst to her—decided that he was going to be a substitute family member in the wake of her mother’s loss. He would see her napping and bring her a pillow. When she awoke, she would always ask who it is, and, when the others declined, she put two-and-two together. It was in small things like that that Bruno, trying his best to avoid growing attached to her, was doing his best at comforting her. After all, Bucciarati had lost his own father. Even if Fugo’s parents were dead to him, they were still breathing, yucking it up in that estate of theirs, rotting away in their lavish mansion. Bruno and Trish, on the other hand, were down one parent, and that was a bond that Fugo just didn’t have.
With him, however, she noticed that she would watch him from afar, like a cat looking out a window, lording over the area over which they stood. There wasn’t a sense of haughtiness anymore, however; after the Pompeii debacle, he’d been banged up pretty badly, as had Giorno and Abbacchio. While she’d thought he’d been asleep, he had noticed her taking that oh-so-comfy blanket of hers and dropping it onto him, giving him her pillow, pacing around in worry. Granted, he had fallen asleep again almost immediately, but still… the gesture did, in fact, mean something to him. He wasn’t sure what. It wasn’t romantically-tinged, however, he knew that.
Giorno infecting himself with Purple Haze’s virus, his hair disheveled, glistening brilliant gold in the sunlight beating down as he fought Illuso, on the other hand? God, his heart skipped a beat, thinking about the new recruit not only sacrificing himself for Fugo’s sake, but infecting himself with his Stand’s disease via snake venom. God, that was so cool! No one had done anything like that for him before. A kind of fluttering possessed his chest. How could he repay him? How?
— Oh. Wait—no, no. That would not do. That—No.
As his mind was becoming a bit too saturated with gushing for his liking, he shook the thought away. Still… Outside of the fact that there was the barrier of him not really understanding Trish in the way, along with the fact that she was their boss’s daughter, there was another factor in the way that made a relationship between them nigh impossible, but he couldn’t quite place what it was; or, if he knew, he didn’t want to acknowledge it.
Fugo remembered that flowing, curled golden hair, noticed the warmth spreading from his core; he was smart enough to know it was the latter.
“She’s… not my type.”
Mista thought about this for a moment, then asked, “...So, do you prefer ugly girls…? I mean, every gal’s beautiful, in my book, even if they aren’t, like, supermodel smokin’ hot, but—”
“...You two do realize I can hear you, right?”
The young men jolted in their seats as they, mortified, saw Trish rub some of the sleep out of her eyes. “I heard all of that,” she said, with a smirk. “I’m quite flattered, but seconding Fugo, I wouldn’t be interested—no offense, Fugo.”
“N-None taken,” Fugo piped up, thankful.
“Trish, help me out here. You caught Fugo’s question, right?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I only heard you call me ‘pretty’ a moment ago. Thanks, by the way,” the rose-haired girl smiled. “It’s nice to hear that from someone who isn’t trying to flirt with me. Feels genuine. I don’t like men who are fakes to my face, just so they can get a shot with me.”
“Those are the worst,” Mista agreed. “Fuckin’ hate them. Pigs.”
“Pigs indeed.” Trish nodded. The two then shared a look of comradery then, and Fugo, oddly enough, felt that in his core. There was a reason why Trish’s statement resonated, whereas Mista’s hadn’t, but he couldn’t put his finger, exactly, on why this was…
Fugo, meanwhile, sat there in awkward silence. Trish then said, “So, what was the question?”
“Crush. How you can tell you have a crush.”
“Uh, well, I’m, uh… Not an expert on this either, admittedly,” Trish confessed. “But, if I had to describe it... Fugo, have you ever felt like… A strike of lightning when looking at someone? But, like, in a good way?”
“...Yes, I have.”
“And you’re like, ‘Oh no, I want to talk to them, but I can’t make words right now?’ And you look at them sometimes, and are like, ‘ Can they tell?’”
Fugo gasped. “Uh, yeah, actually, yeah.”
“Then, your stomach’s like. Fluttery, and kinda nauseous? But also in a good way? Like, when you drink good, French mineral water, but instead of carbonation, you’re feeling bubbles in your… heart? Weird comparisons, I know.”
“Oh, I get that,” Mista gestured at Trish excitedly. “Yeah, that’s a wayy better explanation than I had.
“...Do boys normally talk about this?” She pursed her lips, looking between her bodyguards with a clear sense of concern.
Mista shook his head. “Nope, we don’t. At least, not in my experience.”
“Yeah. Uh…” Fugo nodded in agreement. “This kinda thing’s, like, I dunno. Not really, like…”
“—Manly.” Mista said, finishing the dangling sentence. “It’s not manly. But it should be. I like talkin’ ‘bout this kinda stuff.”
Trish gestured with passion at that remark from Guido. “Yes! You really should! So. Here, we can talk about our feelings. I mean, hell, after a few days from now, I won’t see you two again, so… it doesn’t really matter, does it. Might as well let loose and tell each other some deep, dark secrets. Oh, and talk about crushes. And then, about Madonna’s best song.”
“It’s clearly ‘Open Your Heart.'”
Trish pouted at Mista. “No, it’s ‘Material Girl.’ That hat of yours is making up for your lack of a brain.”
“Ooh, that was good.” Mista chuckled. It was clear, even to Fugo, that her barbs were meant in jest. “Of course you’d like ‘Material Girl,’ Miss ‘I only drink French sparkling water, and not that Italian crap.’ Figures.”
“What? I'm a woman of taste.” Trish, raising her nose defiantly in the air and pantomiming a dramatic, regal gesture, winked. “Anyway... Have you got one, Fugo? A favorite Madonna song?”
“I don’t, honestly; I’m not quite familiar with her discography.”
The girl leaned over toward him, and jabbed his shoulder with a well-manicured nail. “We’ll fix that, after this. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Fugo smiled. Trish really was a spitfire, and she and Mista, in their agreement and banter, sounded like an older brother and younger sister gossiping about crushes with their… Wait, that would make him their… Brother.
Perhaps this was what it felt like to have siblings. It was bizarre; since he’d never had those kinds of bonds in his home, and ones he’d made at college were corrosive and abusive, the closest thing he had to an approximation of siblings were the members of his team. Narancia, in fact, now that he thought about it, was like an annoying younger brother, even if he was 2 years older than Fugo was. It was something he’d felt, but never really had thought about in detail, kind of taking it for granted. Bruno, taking him in like an older brother or father figure, under his wing. Abbacchio, gruffly handing him coffee when he was angry, putting his hand on Fugo’s shoulder, only saying, “Drink. You’ll feel better, kid.” Leone was always right about that, but he wasn’t sure whether it was the drink itself or the love behind the gesture. He loved them, and they loved him. End of story. Famiglia.
Still, these feelings that he felt around Leone, Mista, Narancia, and Bruno, those were different than what they were saying was a crush. The same went for Trish as well, even if she was a new recruit and was going to be out of their hair within the next day or two. What was the difference? What was the difference?
...He did know the difference. Even if he hadn’t wanted to admit it. As they’d been talking, Fugo began to have a sinking suspicion of something he’d been trying to deny for a long, long time. Ever since Fugo was a young child, eyeing his classmate at his all-boy’s Catholic school for the Sons of the Rich and Famous and Marvelously-Endowed, feeling his heart beat like a timpani drum whenever the crush would look Pannacotta’s way. Whenever that crush, now becoming one of those kinds of acquaintances you make out of necessity, in order to survive, offered his hand to him during recess, dragging him to a game; he bashfully took it, relishing the gesture. Whenever the young boys would hand love notes to the girls at their sister school, he, meanwhile, tucked one away for the boy he couldn’t stop thinking of, and, when it was found in the boy’s bag, Fugo insisted it was from his younger sister. He didn’t dare tell his family about any of this, and luckily, it never came up afterward. His acquaintances (never “friends”—he was acutely aware of the distinction) always met in public, hoping to get away from the watchful eyes of the old guard. They’d felt as if they were getting away with something scandalous, buying their candy and grabbing tripe sandwiches with their allowances. Fugo, especially, felt like he was getting away with something whenever he’d manage a glance at his crush, who never would notice. Whether it was the twitterpatation or the seeming-daring of a lack of parental supervision, no one burst these children’s bubbles; it was for the best.
It was especially good that the whole sibling thing hadn’t come up again after that, as Fugo didn’t have a younger sister. Still, the lie worked well enough. It kept him and the others around him deluded for a long, long time about something in his core that he’d been trying oh-so-hard to ignore. But, he didn’t dare say it aloud, because if he acknowledged it, that made the secret that he carried in his bosom real. If he did, it would all be over, and the lies he built for the sake of his own coping would have crumbled, right there, along with the trust and love of everyone he cared about. They wouldn’t accept this unspoken facet of Fugo. He knew it. He was traumatized, had a hair-trigger temper, and had a Stand that would likely kill any of them. One more thing to add to the pile would break their backs.
So, he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t. Not if he wanted to continue living the way he had, even if that life was, in a way, cloaked in a lie.
“So, Fugo,” Trish said, leaning a bit closer to him and cutting him out of his introspection, moving to the opposite end of the couch so that she was on one side of his chair and Mista on the other, “That’s how I describe crushes.”
“Good work, Trish.” Mista gave her a thumbs-up, punctuated by palpable pride.
“Why, thank you.” She bowed with a comedic flourish, the blanket falling off her shoulders. “If you want more sage wisdom from yours truly, I’ll be here all night. Or afternoon. I dunno what time it is.” A chuckle followed. “Until we get to Venice.”
While she was trying to keep a light air about herself, as soon as Trish said Venice, her demeanour darkened the slightest bit. She was terrified out of her wits, even if she wouldn’t let it on.
Guido then turned to his blond friend, asking, “Anyway. What kind of girl have you felt that around before? That’d be your ‘type,’ so to speak.” Fugo, his gaze lingering on the Una girl and her barely-concealed fear a second too long, was silent as he turned to the sharpshooter. He must have been blushing, since Mista nudged him gently with his elbow. “Don’t be shy, Fugo; cat got your tongue?”
His palms were sweaty; he gulped. Trish, meanwhile, met eyes with him, and, seeming to catch onto what Fugo had neglected to voice, or, at the very least, that he was very uncomfortable, only said to Mista, “...Mista, stop it. If he doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t want to talk.”
“ He’s the one who started this,” Mista pouted.
“Doesn’t mean he has to tell us what kind of girl he has the hots for! He only asked about crushes, not matchmaking services!”
“It does if he wants to get a girlfriend! You want a girlfriend, right? Books aren’t gonna date ya, even if they are a decent substitute.”
“Mista.”
Guido turned to see Trish glaring daggers his way. He gulped. “Shit, shit, fine! Fuckin’ hell…” Turning back to Fugo, he said, a bit of genuine shame in his voice, “Sorry.”
Silence.
“...Y’ all right, kid?
“I’m fine,” he lied, voice shaking just enough to betray this fact.
Trish, meanwhile, tapped his shoulder. He turned to her to see her giving him a look of sympathy.
“Yeah, and I’m wearing a zebra print.” Mista rolled his eyes.
Fugo did a quick once-over of Mista, as something had been a bit off in that last statement, and he wanted to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating: “Mista, you are wearing zebra print.”
The young man, who was, in fact, wearing zebra print, didn’t change his expression. “...So, anyway. I am. Touché. But you aren’t fine, Fugo!”
An impressive save, indeed.
The truth was, Mista and Trish were right. He wasn’t fine. That much was obvious. Legal wunderkind and academic extraordinaire he was, Fugo was also an open book. Trish leaned in a bit, and said gently, “...Uh, Fugo, I may be your… protectee? Is that the word for when you’re my bodyguard?” The rose-haired girl shrugged at this, then went on. “Anyway. You may be my bodyguard, but considering you and Giorno almost died for my sake last week, at Pompeii… Look, I’m glad to listen to whatever’s bothering you. It’s not like I’ll tell people once I’m out of your care. Una’s Honor.” She raised her hand in a sort of pledging gesture, and gave a gravely-serious nod.
Mista’s eyebrows furrowed. “Bud, I swear, I don’t wanna stress you out! Look, whatever kinda gal you prefer, I don’t judge.”
He stared at his knees, visible through the holes in his pants. His hands, gripping them, tightened so hard that they were about to go white. Finally, after a long, long silence, Fugo managed, “I, uh, don’t.”
“...What?”
“I don’t.”
“Have a type?”
Fugo shook his head, floundering for words. One would have thought that impromptu debate team practices would have prepared him for being put on the spot like this. But, clearly, it hadn’t! Curse those improv lessons disguised as an extra-curricular at his old elementary school! He didn’t learn what he needed, not to dodge crush talk!
“No, I, uh. Do.”
Mista sat there in confusion while Trish, meanwhile, sat there, gears turning in her head as well. However, she clearly understood far faster than Mista had, as all she did was, softly, as if she were worried he were about to break, placed her hand atop his, and gave it a reassuring squeeze, saying nothing. It was the push he needed to finally spit out what he’d been thinking for all those years.
A gulp. Then, in a moment, he felt as if he’d left his own body due to sheer nerves, and said, heart racing, “My type is… Well, how do I put this…” Fugo took a deep breath. “My type is dudes.” He looked between Mista and Trish, a beat following before he finally managed, “I’m gay.”
There was a long, unbearably heavy silence. As his heart pounded within his ribcage, beats louder than a forissimo timpani solo, the thought of running out of Coco Jumbo and catapulting himself into the Sun became steadily more appealing by the second. He berated himself; Mista clearly wasn’t taking it well, and Trish, on the other hand, was taking it well, but of course she would! She was new! Ugh, and what if Abbacchio heard? Oh god, he would die of embarrassment if Abbacchio knew…! He didn’t care what Abbacchio thought, of course, but, he was old! Not old-old, of course, but he was 20! That would be like—like telling a brother! It would have been mortifying!
Before he could engage in any more self-flagellation, he was cut off, and jumped with a start at a hand on his shoulder. Fugo turned to his left to see that the hand’s owner was Mista. He gave Fugo’s holey-shirted shoulder a gentle squeeze with those calloused, sweaty-yet-kind hands of his. Yet, most shockingly of all for Pannacotta, Guido smiled, practically beaming. “Good for you, Rigatoni!”
“...That… that isn’t even a cheese!” Fugo countered, becoming more and more flustered. Still, the look on Mista’s face clearly indicated that he’d made the flub in order to get a laugh out of Fugo, and it had worked, even if he was too stubborn to give Mista the satisfaction. Still, a chuckle had snaked its way out of Fugo’s voice. “What—what does that even mean? ”
“It means he’s a dumbass.” Trish rolled her eyes.
“It means that, look, I was really, really off the mark. Shit. But, hey! The advice Trish and I gave still applies! I mean, look, I may be straight, but I think guys are smokin’ hot too, sometimes! That’s normal!”
Under her breath, Fugo could hear Trish say, with just the slightest hint of bewilderment, “...It is. When you’re not straight.”
Mista didn’t seem to hear her; this was definitely for the best. His brain had been operating at full capacity, and him questioning his own sexuality would likely have been too much for him to handle.
“...Aren’t you angry?” Fugo asked, a bit bewildered himself. If there was one thing he’d learned from the derision his father would express at the Queens walking by on the street, from the slurs bandied around by his classmates, well… it was that he likely was going to have pushback.
“Why the hell would I be angry?”
“I mean… I have anger issues, I have baggage, and I’m gay. Plus, my Stand is a ticking time bomb. Like… I dunno, that’s a lot to deal with.” Fugo shrugged. Was his self-loathing obvious? He hoped not.
At that, Mista plopped himself right in Fugo’s personal space; Fugo flinched. However, it was clear this was meant to be a comforting gesture. “We don’t ‘deal with’ any of it. You’re our friend, and, more importantly, you’re my friend. I’ve got baggage too. We all do. ‘S a part of life, kid. Also, we’re in the fuckin’ mob. If we didn’t, that’d be… concerning.” Silence followed; Fugo, speechless, watched, mouth agape, as Guido went on. “So, you’re gay. Good! Doesn’t change my advice, and it doesn’t change a thing. The only thing it does change is that clearly, I am a dumbass.”
“That didn’t change.” Trish said this loud enough for him to hear.
It was now Mista’s turn to shoot a glare her way. She replied with an eye-roll, then looked back at Fugo.
After clearing his throat, Pannacotta eventually sputtered out, voice the lightest bit tremulous, “...Thanks, Trish. Mista.”
“No prob. Now, get up. I’m gonna give you a hug.”
“...Uh, sure. I’d—I’d like that.”
Mista stood up, gesturing to the blond while tapping his foot—upon closer inspection, he was wearing socks and sandals. Lord. The fashion disaster continued, but now was not the time to judge someone else's clothing. As soon as Fugo stood up, Mista gave him a tight hug. Did Guido reek? Yes. He needed to learn what deodorant was. But, was the gesture still enough to bring tears to Fugo’s eyes? Absolutely.
“We love ya, bud. So, don’t be afraid to be yourself, ‘kay? After all, we’re all the misfit toys of the mafia. You aren’t alone.”
“Instead of the island of misfit toys…’' With a happy sniffle, Fugo joked, “Does that make us the squadron of misfit boys?”
“Ooh, that’s a good one!” Mista patted Fugo’s back heartily. “You’re way smarter than I am; I couldn’t ever come up with something like that.” He’d turned to talk to Trish, but was swiftly cut off by her also joining in on the friendly embrace.
She said nothing. Mista let go of Fugo, leaving Trish and the newly-out blond to hug for a moment.
“...The Boss won’t kill you for hugging one of his employees, right…?” Fugo managed, followed by a sniffle.
He could feel her shake her head. “Eh, I’m the one who hugged you. Plus, you’re gay. It’s not like he’s gonna think you’re making a move on me, y’know? As my bodyguard, it’s your job to do what I want while I’m in your care, and to keep me safe. I wanted to hug you. So, I did. Is that a problem?”
“N-No, it isn’t, actually; thanks.” A bit of warmth percolated in his chest.
Releasing himself from the hug, Fugo looked to the two teens. “Thanks again, Trish, Mista.”
Trish smiled. “No prob. Will you tell the others?”
While still in a daze, he shook his head. “No. Uh… I think you two knowing about this is enough for now.”
Before Fugo could say anything else, Abbacchio’s eye was directly above the window; the three teens jumped with a start as the twenty-something entered Coco Jumbo. All Abbacchio did was go up to Fugo, and heartily pat his shoulder.
“...Um, Abbacchio, what are you doing?” The blond gave him a quizzical stare.
Leone, following a small chuckle, replied, “I heard everything, kid.”
“Y-You did?!” Pannacotta became as stiff as a board, practically frozen with embarrassment. His face burned with a flustered blush.
“You three are about as quiet as a freight train.”
Trish shot a look at Mista. “This is what happens when someone doesn’t know how to use their indoor voice, Mista. ”
“What?! How was I supposed to know that Abbacchio could hear?”
“I have working ears, dumbass.” He rolled his eyes. “I normally tune out whatever’s in the turtle. This was a rare exception.” A nod, then, he continued. “But, don’t worry, kid, your secret’s safe with us. I’m not gonna spill to the others. And, seriously: Fugo? Give yourself some credit. Shit’s hard to do. ‘M proud of you.” With a kind grin, he patted the teen’s shoulder again, giving it a small squeeze.
“T-Thanks,” Pannacotta managed. “Uh… I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Anyway, back to watch I go. Talk to me later if you want, Fugo; I’m glad to listen.” And with a wave, Leone was back outside of the turtle, his long, white hair resembling a flash of lightning as he left.
A beat passed. The three, still a bit flabbergasted, processed what had just happened, letting themselves marinate in their mortification. Finally, it was Guido who broke the silence. “...So, about telling the others…” He looked to Fugo.
“...I think I’ll wait to tell the others.” Fugo shuddered. “One other member is enough for today, t- thank-you-very-much. ”
A shrug. “Fine, it’s your call.”
“Suit yourself, Fugo. Still… I mean, like—” Trish sighed, appearing as if she were trying and failing to wrangle the words which she was seeking. Then: “Like, I’m gonna be honest here, guys. Look at yourselves. You all don’t exactly exude straightness.”
At Trish’s observation, Mista, pausing for a moment and thinking deeply, then concurred with a nod. She continued. “I don’t want to speculate, but… Well. I wouldn’t be surprised if you weren’t the only one who was gay here too, Fugo.”
After a bit of pondering on Fugo’s end, he realized; he saw what she meant, now that she’d mentioned it. It would have made sense; why he saw Bruno and Abbacchio holding hands when no one was looking (or so they thought), seeing Bucciarati’s neck smudged with periwinkle or purple or black lipstick early in the morning, when he thought Fugo didn’t notice; or, more appropriately, when he thought Fugo wasn’t awake. The way Abbacchio looked at Bucciarati... It was all starting to connect, now.
Then, another connection: He wasn’t alone. Still, trying to process all of this new information would have to come another time, as would coming out to the others. But, he’d do it; a new resolve coursed through his veins, and the fear he once had was, while still there, not as looming as it had been. It was progress. He'd have to ask Abbacchio that night...
Plopping himself down into the chair he’d been sitting in before, Fugo sighed, wiping his eyes a bit with the back of his hand. “Eh, I’m a bad judge of that kinda thing, so Trish, I’ll take your word for it.”
As if he’d been struck by a realization, Guido leaned in close to Fugo, his hands gripping the boy’s chair with a surprising amount of strength. He cut in: “Look, none ‘a that matters; what does matter is, who’s the lucky guy?” Mista asked, leaning onto the side of his seat as he’d sat down, getting annoyingly close to Fugo. “Come on, bud, spill it!”
Trish, crossing her legs, leaned in close, eyes wide. Mista, meanwhile, let go of the chair to clasp his hands, pleading as if this gossip would be the only thing that would sustain him, “C’mon, pretty please, Fugo?”
Pannacotta facepalmed. God, this was exhausting… “Look, like… I just came out for the first time. Give me a break.”
“Okay, fine...” Mista appeared disappointed, but he seemed to take Fugo’s answer at his word. “Still, C’mon, Fugo, tomorrow?”
“I’ll tell you both when I’m ready! Maybe that’s tomorrow, maybe it isn’t! But, in the meantime...” He winked, and gave them a confident, joyous smirk. “It’s a secret. Got it?”
“Got it.” Mista gave him an affirmative gesture, and Trish followed in suit. That answer seemed to sate the other two, and from there, they began to chat, and finished their social time listening to a Madonna CD on Narancia’s new jukebox (Mista had broken the last one when they’d been traveling to find Polpo’s treasure). As he listened to the iconic pop star sing in English about… well, he didn’t fully know, but it was still enjoyable—Fugo smiled. The time would come for him to talk about his crush on Giorno.
Still, this was a great amount of progress: He was with friends, and accepted for who he was. That was far more than he could have ever wished for; far more than he’d ever expected. In the meantime, one secret had come out that day. The other one could wait. Maybe someday, he’d find the courage to tell the others; maybe he wouldn’t. But, telling Trish and Mista—and most likely having been overheard by Abbacchio, he conceded—those were more than enough confidantes for now. All in all, it was nice, to no longer feel as if he had a mask atop his head; he'd taken it off, and it shattered it to pieces in front of his friends. His secret off his chest for the first time in his life, and basking in the joy, jokes, and witty retorts as banter between Trish and Mista filled the air like pattersong, Pannacotta Fugo smiled, joy percolating in his heart.