Work Text:
Night. July 2006. Italy.
Fugo steps out of the venue with a cigarette already pinched between his teeth, his thin mesh shirt sticking to his chest with a combination of sweat and spilled alcohol.
The air is thick with humidity and feels heavy in his lungs. Heat pricks uncomfortably at the back of his knees and the space where his neck meets his shirt collar. Pieces of bleached hair hang in his eyeline, slipping free from the clip he piled it in earlier. He raises a hand to yank the strands back into place and immediately cringes at the way his fingers catch in his hair gel.
…A too-rough hand forces his head down into the stale pillow. He writhes against the larger body pinning him down.
…~ Stop squirming. I’m almost in. ~
Fugo’s blood freezes at the unwanted memory. More of the venue’s patrons spill onto the small section of sidewalk Fugo occupies, all taking the same advantage of sucking in fresh air between sets. Fugo feels his nerves drawing tighter with each body that bumps into his, his arm continuously jolting as he attempts to dig his lighter out of his pocket.
…~ God. You’re squeezing me so good ~
His hands are shaking. He pretends they aren’t and successfully lights the cigarette on his third attempt before moving away from the crowd.
…~ Fuck. So tight…~
Fugo swallows the bile that threatens to creep up his throat. He levels his gaze forward and manually keeps his stride even and controlled. His breathing quickens without his permission and his mouth works around the cigarette. His trains his ears behind him for footsteps, feigning nonchalance when all he wants to do is bolt.
…A hard slap lands across his face, making him cry out.
…~ Stop fucking crying. ~
Fugo walks the length of the club and turns abruptly into the narrow alleyway behind it, finally allowing the clack of his heeled boots to quicken against the pavement. He stops when he can no longer make out the clubgoers chattering and he leans a hand against the stone wall of the building.
He lets go.
Fugo doubles over, letting out a broken sob and allowing the tears that were pricking behind his eyes to fall freely. He feels the dim vibrations thudding against his palm transition into a harsh tempo as the next band must begin playing. The cigarette falls from his shaking hand.
…~ Open wider…good boy…~
“NO!”
Fugo violently shakes his head. With a burst of emotion, he rips his jacket off and screams into it. He empties his racing mind into the garment; words muffled by the fabric and the music bleeding out of the venue.
“WHY! WHY OF ALL FUCKING PEOPLE IS HE HERE!! WHY! OH GOD NO FUCK WHY HIM NO WHY FUCK FUCK FUUUUCK”
His body twists with the force of his cries, torso buckling over his knees and long hair completely departing from its clip which falls unnoticed to Fugo’s feet.
An ambulance siren sounds down the road. The band keeps playing. Alone in an alleyway, Fugo is on fire.
Fugo screams until his throat feels raw, finally ripping his head out of the fabric with a wet gasp. He stumbles into the wall and re-dons his jacket, taking deep shaky breaths and urging his heart to stop racing. He spots the silver hair clip on the pavement and reaches for it.
Five seconds in, five seconds out. That’s the technique Bruno suggested, and he begrudgingly admits actually helps.
Fugo’s panic gradually fades, replaced by the practical and calm part of his mind that always takes stage after a meltdown. Fiddling with the hair clip in one hand, he mentally goes over the facts.
One, there’s no way Dolcio saw him. The venue is so crowded and dimly lit it’s a wonder Fugo spotted the older man in the first place. And two, even if he did, there’s absolutely no way Dolcio would link the taller, blonder, twenty-two-year-old version of Fugo with the waif-like sixteen-year-old runaway he used to pick up on the corner by the old bowling alley. And then continued to privately solicit at Polpo’s bordello after Fugo got arrested for the first time. The same bordello which was not so coincidentally raided and burned down three weeks after Fugo turned eighteen and left it for good. Thanks Abbacchio.
That last thing does wonders to soothe him. That version of him is dead and buried in the rubble of the building, his old room nothing but dust and memories. Bad dreams that claw at his throat and disappear the next morning. No one who knew him there can hurt him. He lives a respectable life now by anyone’s standards, complete with a paying job and his own half of an apartment.
Fugo gathers his hair and re-places the clip. Feeling momentarily sated, he focuses on the foot he has propped against the opposite wall. At his shoes. His stupid, impractical, stupid shoes that Narancia goaded him into wearing because they: “Make your legs look fuckin’ fantastic, Panna, god DAMN if we didn’t already live together I’d take you home myself.” Fugo scowls at the memory. Earlier in the evening he had attempted to stay the fuck home from Narancia’s gig due to never, ever having a good time at the tiny, crowded venues his band books and had ended up leaving his and Narancia’s shared apartment a handful of hours later wearing leopard print and stupid shoes. And look what happened.
Fuck you Narancia. He thinks grimly.
Another burst of noise from the venue brings Fugo back to reality. He roughly swipes at his eyes and takes a deep breath, raises his sleeve to check his watch. 12:27.
Fugo hisses out a curse. Narancia’s band was supposed to go on at midnight. They had a half-hour slot, and he hopes the other man will forgive him for missing it. But shit, Narancia was really excited for this gig. Half lost in thought, Fugo suddenly becomes aware of another body in the alley and a bolt of fear shoots through him.
“Panna! I thought I saw you come this way.”
Fugo immediately recognizes the voice. Panic rapidly bleeds out of his system is replaced with relief.
“Hi Guido.” He manages to say, voice still raw.
When Bruno first offered Fugo a room, he was seventeen and imploding. He was scared of his own shadow and consumed by so much anger and self-loathing that he pushed away anyone and everything that attempted to get close to him. Out of desperation he took up the offer for an overnight bed, but he flinched away from Bruno’s kind words and spit venom towards Narancia, the small boy with an eyepatch who followed Bruno like a stray cat. And on nights when his anger became too much, too heavy, he would end up back at Polpo’s. He stopped fighting back. He stopped struggling. He became a ghost haunting his own body.
And then he met Guido Mista. Mista who didn’t take any of Fugo’s shit, who threw insults back at him with a smile and took him for lunch the next day. Who is simultaneously a bigger trainwreck than Fugo and has been holding down a steady job since he was fifteen. Mista who sat through Fugo’s outbursts and was there to hold him afterwards. Mista who convinced him to leave Polpo’s for good and always had a couch to crash on when Fugo’s thoughts became too much to handle. Who’s couch gradually turned into half of his own bed. Who took him to a stupid action movie on their first date but held his hand the whole time. Who kissed Fugo soft and sweet and so unlike what he was used to. Mista who loves him and reminds him of it every chance he gets.
The man in question smiles broadly and steps closer until he’s directly in front of Fugo, leaning against the opposite wall. Mista takes in Fugo’s appearance, from his swollen eyes to his tear-stained cheeks. He swears under his breath and lightly kicks the other mans outstretched leg.
“Nice shoes Panna. They make you look even more like a giraffe than usual.” Mista’s tone is light and causal, delivering the insult as one would comment on the weather.
Fugo says nothing, biting his lip and giving the other man a once over. Mista has a knack for eccentricity, his current ensemble consisting of bright red boots, tight red leather pants held up by a zebra print belt, and an extremely cropped black tank top.
“And you look like a tool.” Fugo replies in a small voice.
Mista smiles at that, raising a hand between them to swipe a thumb under Fugo’s right eye. When did I start crying again? He thinks.
He meets Mista’s eyes with his own and is taken aback by the softness he finds in the other man’s expression. He’s looking at Fugo like he can see right through him. And after being together for the better part of a decade, he might as well be able to.
The wall behind them shakes with noise. Narancia’s band must be finishing their set.
“I saw him too.” Mista says plainly.
Fugo just stares. Oh. Then he seems to deflate, falling forwards and slinging his arms around Mista’s shoulders. He gasps out a sob and clutches his fingers through the other mans’ hair to pull him impossibly closer. Mista catches him easily. He is a solid wall against him, tan arms wrapping firmly around Fugo’s waist and across his back. Fugo holds on and lets himself shake.
Like everything, it’s Mista that breaks him out of it.
“Let’s go home.” He mumbles into Fugo’s hair.
..
Home can mean a lot of places for Fugo. Mista is leading him to his favourite. They greet Bruno at the door and are welcomed into Fugo’s old room with no questions asked. Fugo heads to his dresser and changes into the soft clothing he’s kept there for emergencies such as these. Grey athletic shorts and one of Abbacchio’s old band t-shirt replace his tight club-wear. He turns to find Mista stripped down to his boxers and sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, looking at him expectedly. Fugo’s bedside lamp casts a warm shadow across the room.
“So?” Mista begins, giving the other man an opening. The two have routinely stayed up for hours talking after nights like these, when situations are particularly hard and bad thoughts are particularly loud. But right now, Fugo is fucking exhausted.
“I don’t want to talk about it” Fugo says quietly. He pads over to the bed and kneels on it, sitting opposite the other man.
“Then let’s not.” Mista replies easily, like he was expecting that answer.
Mista reaches up and pushes Fugo back by the shoulders, making him flop onto his back with a small noise of protest. Mista takes a moment to grab the blanket before he follows him down, settling down onto the other side of the bed then reaching out for Fugo to gather him up against his chest.
Mista is warm and solid. Fugo shuffles close, wraps his arms around Mista’s waist and hides his face in his collarbone. Mista tangles their legs together and reaches out a hand to turn out the lamp.
“Let’s just sleep” Mista whispers.
That night Fugo dreams of nothing at all.