🥖 | [fugonara] tastes like strawberries on a summer evening

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and it sounds just like a song.
i want more berries and that summer feeling
it's so wonderful and warm.





Character(s): Pannacotta Fugo, Narancia Ghirga, Guido Mista, Giorno Giovanna

Relationship(s): Pannacotta Fugo/Narancia Ghirga (can be interpreted here as romantic, platonic or even one-sided... whatever you want!), Giorno Giovanna/Guido Mista (if you reaaaaally squint)

Tags & warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, canonical character death

Completed: 8/5/20

Word count: 828





dedicating this to whyyousoserious, bc the first jjba fic i read was theirs, and they also mentioned one of their favs are fugo <33 (i'm sorry tho bc this is just... fugo torture TwT)

en...joy...??







Narancia Ghirga missed a call from you.

Narancia Ghirga missed 3 calls from you.

Narancia Ghirga missed 11 calls from you.

Fugo lowers his phone. The heaviness in his chest spreads, quiet, crushing, until his heart feels numb and his lungs burn as if he has just inhaled an entire capsule of Purple Haze's virus.

Narancia is gone. He can feel it. And he wonders if Narancia felt the same, that day in San Giorgio Maggiore when Fugo turned his back on the only people who still cared about him in this world.

Probably not.

And he wouldn't wish it upon him either.

━━━━━━━━

Despite the disapproval and, dare he say, dread from his logical side, Fugo goes to visit Narancia's grave. It's only appropriate, he tells himself — or maybe it's because he can't bear saying goodbye to just a shadow. There seems to have been a funeral, but it must have been private, reserved only for the survivors of the treacherous ordeal — and of course, because Fugo wasn't a part of it, he wasn't invited.

It is raining when he steps off the car. Giorno — who by the way is the boss now, he hears — was kind enough to arrange private transportation for him, although in the message he had sent, and later in the driver's courteous but otherwise empty words, the familiarity Fugo has hoped for was not present. To say he has expected it would be a lie and a presumption; after all, he has no right. Fugo wonders if he feels this way because he's still looking for it somewhere, maybe in the corners of restaurants, maybe in pocket knives and notebooks, maybe in the dead.

What even is it?

He doesn't know.

He refuses the umbrella the driver hands him, in spur-of-the-moment rebelliousness. The rain is cold as it soaks through his suit, running down his back in uncomfortable rivulets. Fugo finds Narancia's grave surrounded by flowers that look to him like moonflowers, but probably only Giorno will know for sure. It's beautiful, at least. Beautiful, blooming, unstained — just like how Narancia deserved to be.

How were his final moments? Did he die fighting for his cause? Did he ever get to see it fulfilled?

Even before death, Narancia was lost to Fugo.

He suddenly realizes the rain has stopped. Actually, it hasn't — it's only started falling in a cylindrical shape around him. Mista enters his periphery, in his hand an umbrella big enough to cover both of them. Silence swells in between raindrops, in the gap separating the teens, in Fugo's head until he can no longer take it:

"Why are you here?"

He feels Mista's eyes on him, though he isn't sure what emotion they hold. "You didn't look too comfortable standing in the rain."

"If you're expecting me to say something, I'm not gonna say it, so you might as well just leave." The words come out before Fugo can think. Honestly, though, what is left for him to say? Thank you? I'm fine? Sorry? My condolences? None of them works, and even if one does, Fugo doesn't think he can say it.

Mista doesn't push. He stands there for a moment, before taking Fugo's hand and placing the umbrella into it. Then he jogs back towards a car that seems to have been parked outside for a while. When he opens the door and ducks in, Fugo thinks he sees a flash of blond.

Water drips off the flower petals surrounding Narancia's grave. Underneath the umbrella, Fugo is dry and warm — but he doesn't think he deserves it.

━━━━━━━━

"Fugo! Hey, Fugo! Is this right?"

What?

"Is this right? Arghh, I spent so much time thinking about it! It'd better be right! Is it?"

What? What is? Where are you?

"Oi Fugo, don't ignore me now. I'm asking you a question! Is this right?"

Is what right? What are you talking about?

"Is this right, Fugo? Is this right?"

Fugo sits bolt upright in bed, gasping, hands outstretched into nothingness. His face feels wet. Raking a hand through his hair, he curses, sobs into the darkness, grips and pulls as if hoping that if he does it forcefully enough, he will be pulled out from this body, soul and mind or guts or bones or whatever, because he can't handle it, can't handle the regret that wrings him, the pain that chokes, the grief that haunts him like a ghost. Was it right? Was it right for him to have stayed back? Was it right for him to have withdrawn? Was it right for him to have hesitated, felt fear, ran away in the face of certain death?

But would it be right for him to have listened? Would it be right for him to have betrayed his mind? Would it be right for him to have followed his heart, even blind, straight into hell itself?

Fugo thinks the opportunity he has to answer those questions has long, long since passed.







why did i name this after the lyrics of harry styles's "watermelon sugar"? i actually have NO idea. i woke up today and listened to this song while brushing my teeth, and fugonara feels hit me LIKE A ROAD ROLLER. no lie. (i didn't even really like fugo before this?? or ship fugonara??? but... welp, #fangirlproblems.)

it might be bc the last thing i did before bed yesterday night was finish golden wind (anime), oof.

so i guess i did it to honor my inspiration :P

anyway, ta-daaa: approx 800 words of pure angst (; ω ; ) hope y'all enjoyed!! ♡♡ i'll go be sad forever now 。゚(TT)゚。

almost forgot!! what are y'all's thoughts on the formatting? i might keep it after all :0

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