Chapter Text
Ever since he was a child, Fugo had been treated more like a trophy than a person. He was gifted, that much was obvious, and not only possessed high academic intelligence but also was a musical prodigy. He knew his classmates had been jealous of him, they were never subtle when they talked behind his back about how wonderful his life must be. If he wasn’t so scared of the consequences, he would tell them all how wrong they were. But he couldn’t, it would look bad if he tried to say anything negative about his family. It’s not like anyone would believe him, anyway. They would call him a liar, and then when his parents inevitably found out he would get into trouble for trying to give the Fugo family a bad reputation. Everything was about numbers and reputations and appearances, and due to Fugo’s natural gifts his parents needed him to be the face of the family’s next generation. Meaning, he wasn’t allowed to make mistakes, no matter how small.
Whenever he was at a piano recital his parents could tell if he was even the slightest bit off, and the drive home would either be a giant lecture or unsettling silence. If he got any test grades below a 95, words like “embarrassing”, “disgraceful”, and “lazy” would be thrown his way, and he would be forced to spend the next week practically locked in his room after class so he could study. If he cried during or after an argument with his family, his mother would give him a mocking frown and ask him, “oh, why are you crying, Pannacotta? If anyone should be crying, it’s me! How do you think I feel? Imagine if anybody saw you like this, you should feel ashamed for making everything all about yourself.”
Each time Fugo found himself in these situations, he felt something that he could only describe as some sort of monster grow inside of him. It was ugly and it was blinding, and the intensity of the anger he felt terrified him down to his core. Sometimes his father would scold him over getting an A- on a test, and Fugo would become consumed by thoughts of how he wished he could take that test paper and make the tall man in front of him choke on it until he passed out. When his brothers tormented him whenever his parents weren’t paying attention, Fugo would sit there and just take it while fantasizing about what household items would be best to hit them over the head with.
One time when he was ten years old, he was sent to his room without dinner again for messing up a note in his recital, and he almost lost control over himself. He sneaked out of his room, blinded by this sudden, uncontrollable anger, and fiddled with a small pocketknife he owned. His parents were tired and watching tv in the living room, so they didn’t even hear him coming. It was the perfect situation, not that Fugo had planned for things to go this way. In fact, he hadn’t planned anything at all. For the first time there wasn’t a single thought running through his head – there was only rage. He got the knife out and went to raise it above his head, but he froze upon seeing his blurry reflection in the clean weapon. Wait. What am I doing? Am I insane? What on earth is wrong with me? His thoughts came flooding back and the anger he felt vanished, the nasty beast inside of him going dormant. Instead, a chill ran through his body, making him shake. He was crazy, he must be. He was about to attack his parents like some kind of lunatic! Yeah, maybe he hated how he was treated at home, but he didn’t want to kill anyone! He had never felt so horrified and guilt-ridden in his life, and he quickly ran to the bathroom so he wouldn’t puke on the nice hardwood floor. If anyone heard him retching then they must have ignored it, because Fugo found himself curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor alone for the rest of the night, too scared of what he might do if he left the room.
Thankfully, since then Fugo had gotten a better grasp on his anger, but his guilt still plagued him. Logically he knew he should be getting help with this problem, but his parents wouldn’t allow it. He had tried to somewhat confide in his mother about his anger issues as an adolescent, but she brushed him off and told him that he was simply overreacting. Nothing could be wrong with her son, he was fine! His father reacted in a similar way, saying that he just needed to focus on school and piano, and when he got a well-paying job then he would be happy. When his brothers overheard, they ridiculed him for trying to get everyone to pity him, and his parents pretended they couldn’t hear. Fugo hadn’t tried to confide in them since. He settled for reading books and trying to find ways on his own to overcome this ugly side of him.
While he was much better than he used to be, every now and then his anger bubbled over. Usually this happened with his family, typically around his brothers but sometimes his parents if they were arguing. He lost his filter and would yell and throw things at the wall, and once he calmed down his head would hurt, his ears would ring, and he would feel disoriented. However, even after witnessing his outbursts firsthand, his parents still wouldn’t accept that their son needed help. They just told him to get over himself and to listen to them. They knew best, and these little childish temper tantrums were embarrassing for them. Fugo knew they just didn’t want any of their rich friends to catch wind that their son had to go to something as horrible as therapy, and he had to take deep breaths to quell the angry beast threatening to take control again.
Lately, their arguments had been over college and careers. Fugo was at the top of his class on a pre-law track, and over the summer he was going to go on an internship across the country. Once he graduated, he would go to law school and become a lawyer, then he’d make a shit-ton of money, marry some rich girl, and have a bunch of kids to continue the family name. That’s how it was going to go, Fugo had no say. He hadn’t cared about the career part when he was younger, honestly. He cared more about the “marrying some rich girl and having a bunch of kids” part because honestly nothing about that sounded appealing. At all. But now that he was actually studying law, he found that he hated that, too. He didn’t hate the material itself – he was indifferent towards it – but studying law made him despise his parents even more. Whenever his parents spoke about his future, they were excited, their eyes would gleam, and they almost looked proud. But when they actually looked at Fugo, they stared at him with apprehension and disappointment. It made him furious. I’m the one doing all of the work, why can’t they just look at me like they care? I don’t even want to be a lawyer! I would rather study art history, or sociology, or English literature, or literally almost anything else! This is so stupid! These anger-fueled thoughts fought with the side of him that lived in fear of his parents and of what they would do if he went against him. After all, they raised him, fed him, sheltered him, and had been paying for his education for years. He had absolutely no right to disrespect them, yet his anger would still win more often than not.
Over and over they argued, and it never once went in Fugo’s favor. He was punished for speaking out against them, but life would continue as normal the next day. Well, sometimes they would give him a cold shoulder, and sometimes they would threaten to stop paying for his education, but once he apologized and asked for their forgiveness everything would be okay again.
Except for now, apparently. Fugo’s parents had been at their wits end with his “attitude”, and instead of doing the logical thing and getting him help, they decided to punish him more. After their most recent argument where Fugo finally admitted that he didn’t even want to study law, they decided to push back his internship until the following summer and teach him a “proper lesson”. Now Fugo was on his way to this place called the Bucciarati Family Farm. He barely had had time to get info on the place before his bags were being packed and his driver was whisking him away from his house. His brothers sneakily laughed at him the whole time he was leaving, and since he was feeling spiteful he spit on one of their shoes as he walked by. Fuck them, fuck everyone here.
The farm was about two and a half hours away from his hometown, and they had to drive through one of the bigger cities in the state to get there. For most of the drive he and his driver sat in silence, but that mostly was because his parents must have told his driver not to answer any of Fugo’s questions. All Fugo knew is that he was going to work on the farm for the summer so he could understand that he should be grateful for the opportunity to have a career as good as being a lawyer. Besides that bit of information, the blond was completely in the dark. Would he be stuck with a bunch of hillbillies or something? Would he have to sleep in some tiny room with a bunch of other people and no air ventilation? Would the house be old and rundown? Would he be forced to actually butcher a chicken or something? He might die if he had to do that, that sounded utterly horrible. What if this Bucciarati person was a hardass who forced him to work in the hot summer weather until he dropped dead? Was he even getting paid for this or did this count as volunteer work? God, this is stupid. How was he expected to work full-time on a farm when he had no prior experience? He hoped whoever was in charge didn’t have high expectations, because he didn’t know the first thing about farm life. Why would he? He had only even been to a farmer’s market once, and even then he did something stupid that got him in trouble with his parents and they never went back to one. So why were they sending him to a farm, of all places?
Fugo was so lost in thought that he didn’t even notice how close they were to the destination until he caught sight of a sign reading “Bucciarati Family Farm, 1 mi”. It didn’t take long for his driver to turn onto the street, and Fugo could feel dread building up inside of him as the large homestead came into view. He was surprised the farm seemed to be in a normal, suburban neighborhood and not in the middle of nowhere like he had expected. It didn’t make him feel any better but hey, at least he probably would have some cell phone reception out here.
I’m sure they aren’t literally expecting me to stay here all summer, they must be trying to scare me or something. I’ll be here for one month tops and then they’ll come and pick me up. I have too many things to do this summer; I have to practice piano and keep up on my studying, I doubt they’d really want me to fall a whole summer behind, he reasoned in his head, staring pointedly away from the farm until they pulled up right in front of it. As much as he hated his own house, he definitely did not want to be stuck here of all places until the end of August.
They were parked in front of what looked to be a little store. Flowers were organized along the sides and there were tables where fresh fruits and vegetables were for sale. Two wide doors were held open by painted rocks, so Fugo was able to look inside and see that there were shelves and refrigerators storing things from baked goods to dairy products, though it was too far away to see them in much detail. Some guy with a weird bob cut was sitting behind the cash register while another, shorter person with an orange headband was helping out a customer outside, and both of them turned their heads towards the car when it stopped. Bob-Cut-Guy said something to Headband-Guy and then came out from behind the register, making his way towards their car with a smile. He looked… slightly familiar, but it was hard to place where exactly he might have seen him before.
Fugo’s driver stepped out of the car and the two of them exchanged some polite words, and then Fugo’s door was opened and he was allowed to step out. Already the blonde could tell that he was going to have a problem, the air smelled weird and it was far too hot out, and he was expected to work in these conditions? Just the thought made Fugo want to gag, but as long as he didn’t have to take care of the dirty animals he probably could manage. Probably.
“You must be Pannacotta Fugo, right?” Bob-Cut-Guy asked, putting his hand out for him to shake. Fugo internally cringed at hearing his full name; he had to correct that before these people started calling him something stupid.
“Don’t call me that. I just go by Fugo," he replied, keeping his words short and stiff. Fugo knew he sounded rude; he could see the sharp look his driver was giving him. In the distance he noticed that Headband-Guy was making a face at them and it took all of his power to not make an angry face back. After all, he had to maintain some level of politeness right now. At least he had to try, who knew how long he would last before his anger reared its ugly head and messed everything up.
Bob-Cut-Guy, however, didn’t seem put off in the least and kept his hand out. “I’ll keep that in mind. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fugo. I’m Bruno Bucciarati, my father owns the farm but I’m the one you’ll be working with mostly. The building next door is the house you’ll be staying in with me and a few of the other workers. We already have a room set up for you and we can help you move your bags over there now if you’d like.”
Fugo listened to the explanation and finally shook his hand, knowing that his parents most likely would hear about it from his driver if he continued to refuse. His eyes followed the direction Mr. Bucciarati’s other hand was pointing in and looked the house up and down. It honestly didn’t look too bad; it was a lot bigger than he had imagined. How many people lived there though? What exactly counted as ‘a few’?
“I won’t have to share my bedroom with anybody else, right?” he found himself asking before he could even finish the thought in his head. He stared Mr. Bucciarati in the eye and still couldn’t find any trace of annoyance in them. The man just chuckled lightly, shaking his head.
“No, you’ll have a room all to yourself. I figured you wouldn’t want to room with strangers, after all,” he said as he walked towards the car, and Fugo watched as his driver helped him take some of the luggage out of the trunk. Then, Mr. Bucciarati turned back towards the store, and cupped a hand next to his mouth.
“Narancia! Come here and help wi-“ he paused, a confused expression forming when he saw that there was no one working the storefront anymore. There was, however, a blond guy walking out of the greenhouse on the other side of the store. He wore blue overalls and had the strangest curls in the front of his hair. Since he was the only other one around, Mr. Bucciarati decided to call out to him instead. “Giorno! Can you tell Narancia to stop running away and to help me like he knows he’s supposed to be doing? I know he ran in the greenhouse!”
Giorno seemed to be slightly conflicted despite keeping his expression generally neutral, his eyes flickering from Mr. Bucciarati to the greenhouse a few times. He made up his mind quickly, though, and silently nodded before calling for the other guy to come out.
Fugo could hear a small ruckus from inside the greenhouse before the short guy from earlier popped his head out and glared at Giorno. “Dude, not cool! I told you not to tell Bruno where I was!” he huffed, a pout forming. “Whatever happened to listening to your elders?”
Giorno frowned slightly at his coworker, taking into consideration what he was just told before looking over at Mr. Bucciarati and replying with, “Well, Bruno is older than you. So, I am listening to my elders, as should you.” He then ignored whatever was said back to him and retreated back inside the greenhouse. He hadn’t even given Fugo a single glance during that whole interaction. He must not be the type to talk to strangers, which Fugo could appreciate. He’d actually quite like if none of them spoke to him at all so he wouldn’t have to deal with anyone until he could go home.
A sigh was heard from beside him, and Fugo saw Mr. Bucciarati pinch the bridge of his nose before waving the guy over towards them. Headband-Guy (Narancia, was it?) groaned in annoyance, but still jogged over without any further complaints. His hair was messy and would probably fully cover his eyes if not for the tied headband, and he was a few inches shorter than Fugo. His eyes scanned him over more than once, and Fugo just raised an unimpressed eyebrow back, already feeling annoyed.
“Narancia, this is Fugo. He’s the new worker who I told you would be staying with us this summer, remember?” Mr. Bucciarati introduced, gesturing at Fugo. He and Narancia shared a brief look, and Narancia wiped his hands on his black t-shirt. He then looked at him with a wide, toothy smile and held a hand out for him to shake. Fugo took one look at it and immediately recoiled away, giving him a little sneer without meaning to.
While Fugo may have shook Mr. Bucciarati’s hand, there was absolutely no way he was going to even think about touching this guy’s hand. Even though he wiped it, it was still filthy with what was hopefully dirt stuck under his fingernails, and there were multiple jagged scars not only on his palm but also crawling up his tanned arm. A bandage was in the spot between his thumb and pointer finger but even that looked like it had dirt on it. Seriously, if you have a cut you can’t just let dirt get into it, that’s a bad infection waiting to happen!
Fugo hadn’t realized that he spoke his thought out loud until he saw Narancia snatch his hand back and hold it close to his chest, giving a weary glance towards Mr. Bucciarati, who only looked surprised for a moment. “Um, Narancia, why don’t you get the hose from Giorno and clean off your hands, and then come back and help bring these bags inside, okay?” Mr. Bucciarati spoke in a calm tone, which seemed to help Narancia look a little more relaxed.
Once the dark-haired boy had run off again, Mr. Bucciarati sighed and turned to Fugo, the smallest frown on his face. “… Fugo, I would appreciate if you could keep those thoughts to yourself,” is all he said, and he didn’t quite sound angry but there was some underlying tone that made Fugo feel just a little bit guilty. It didn’t matter though; it wasn’t like he would be here for very long.
They stood there in silence until Narancia returned with much cleaner hands and a fresh bandage. Fugo thought he would immediately go for the luggage but was surprised when the shorter guy’s hand shot out in front of him once more, still waiting for a handshake. “Better now, princess?” Narancia quipped, his facial expression stuck somewhere between amused and annoyed.
Fugo saw red.
He roughly grabbed Narancia’s hand and squeezed as hard as he could. If he wanted a handshake, he’ll give him a handshake. “Excuse you, I am not a damn princess, you idiot! I’m so sorry I didn’t want to shake your dirty, FILTHY hand!” He knew he was being loud and downright mean as he roughly shook the tanned arm up and down, and distantly he could hear Narancia yelp from the pain and Bruno tell him to let go, but he was just so furious that he couldn’t stop himself. He squeezed harder and harder, and the reasonable part of his brain that hadn’t been swallowed by his rage wondered if he should let go so he didn’t break this guy’s hand. That thought, too, got eaten.
All of a sudden, he felt the hand squeeze back, and it was so tight that his rage dissipated enough for him to actually see Narancia’s face. It was contorted in anger, and they locked eyes for a short moment before Fugo felt his hand get squeezed to the point that he began to worry that now it was his own hand that was about to break. “What the hell!? What is your goddamn problem, you asshole???” Narancia’s voice was loud and grating on Fugo’s ears, and Fugo couldn’t do anything besides glare back. He started to squeeze again, feeling his anger building up at an alarming rate once more, but then his hand was being yanked away from Narancia’s and he stumbled back a few steps. He all of a sudden felt a bit dazed, and when he focused his eyes he saw Mr. Bucciarati glaring at both of them, his mouth moving. He must be yelling at them, but Fugo hadn’t been able to hear it over the pounding in his ears.
He shook his head to try to get the ache to go away, and when he opened his eyes again Mr. Bucciarati was staring directly at him, is expression completely unreadable. “-and do you understand, Fugo?”
Shit. “Yes, I understand. I truly apologize, I don’t know what came over me,” Fugo responded robotically, barely missing a beat. Asking for anyone to repeat themselves was rude, and now that he wasn’t clouded by anger Fugo could feel shame festering inside him. How could I have lost control like that? I’m better than that. I need to be better. He repeated that last thought over and over as he looked back and forth between the two people in front of him, trying to figure out what was said when he wasn’t paying attention. Narancia was beside Mr. Bucciarati, and he muttered something that to Fugo sounded like “rich priss,” but snapped his mouth shut and looked away when he noticed he was being watched.
They stood in an uncomfortable silence and Fugo felt as though he was missing some key information, but after about a half minute Mr. Bucciarati gave a pointed look to the shorter boy beside him and cleared his throat.
“Ohhh, right,” Narancia rolled his eyes and gave Fugo a long look as he stepped forward. “I’m sorry that you have the temper of a toddler and don’t know how to handle someone teasing you. Okay? Awesome. We’re done with this.” He waved his bandaged hand around as he spoke, walking right past everyone with a laugh to collect some of the luggage from the ground. Mr. Bucciarati suddenly looked very, very tired, and Fugo felt his own eye twitch in anger. Thankfully he was able to keep that monster in his head down, and instead settled for glaring at Narancia as he turned around. He was shocked to see that the black-haired boy was able to carry most of it at once, but Fugo made sure to snatch the backpack that had his laptop and other valuable items. Who knew if there was a place around here where he could get his things fixed if this guy dropped it all?
With a nod towards the house, Narancia began to walk away, grinning when Mr. Bucciarati gave him another look. He stopped a few steps away from the door, looking behind him. “C’mon, you wanna see your room or what? I need you to open this door anyway, so hurry it up!” he called out, and Fugo’s feet were spurred into motion. Mr. Bucciarati was still looking at him oddly, and he would rather follow this annoying brat into his house than stand under the taller man’s gaze any longer.
“Alright, it’s time for a mini house tour! So, there are five bedrooms in the house,” Narancia began once they were both inside, not sounding at all like he had just yelled at him not even two minutes ago. Fugo felt like he was getting whiplash from the change in this guy’s mood. “My room is in the attic, Bruno’s room is down the hall next to the bathroom, Giorno’s room is next to the living room, and then there are two guest bedrooms. Yours is going to be the one directly across from Giorno's because it’s a little bigger and you seem like the type to care about that stuff,” he explained, nodding towards each door before stopping in front of the one meant for him. It sounded like he was making a jab at him, but Fugo couldn’t tell if it was friendly teasing or not, so he made the mature decision to just ignore it.
Once the door was opened, Narancia took a few steps inside and gingerly placed everything on the floor. “So yeah! There should be enough outlets in here for you, and the bed sheets, pillows, and blanket have already been washed. The desk and the dresser shouldn’t have anything in their drawers, and the closet is empty too. The tv is also fully functioning, in case you were worried. Does that work for you? Meet your standards?” When he finished talking, he crossed his arms and waited for an answer, and Fugo still couldn’t tell if he was being passive-aggressive or if this was just how the guy talked when he made friendly conversation.
Well. Only one way to find out, right? “… What if I said no?” he asked, eyeing the boy in front of him to gauge his reaction.
Narancia just stared at him for a second and then snorted, raising an eyebrow. “Well that’d suck. Hear the barn’s roomier if you want more space! You’d hafta deal with a few roommates, though.” So apparently he was just being friendly? That was what it seemed like. Interesting.
Fugo couldn’t help the small smile that played on his lips, and then all of a sudden this Narancia guy was way too close for comfort. “Wow! You actually smiled!” he practically shrieked, his bright eyes shining. “Ha! Hey, who woulda thought that you’d be kinda cute when you got that huge fucking stick outta your ass!” he teased, smiling and giggling and looking downright impish.
The remarks caused Fugo to frown again, his face redder than he wanted to admit. In their close proximity, Fugo also noticed that not only did Narancia have light freckles dotting his face, but one of his eyes was discolored, almost like it was clouding over. He had never seen anything like it before. Was that natural, or some kind of injury? “What happened to your eye?” he couldn’t help but ask, oddly transfixed by it.
Narancia’s face shifted between three different expressions of confusion, irritation, and… embarrassment? But as soon as it came it went, and he shot back with a question of his own. “What happened to your nose?”
Fugo froze for a second, immediately putting a hand over his nose to check it. “My nose?” He repeated, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He knew that his nose was longer than he would have liked, but… “Is there something wrong with it?” he asked, and he must have looked a certain way when he spoke because Narancia started cackling
“No, of course not! But maybe you shouldn’t ask people personal questions,” he replied, a wide grin on his face. Must be a sore topic, then. Oops. Narancia didn’t seem too put off by it, though, and got out of his face to walk towards the door. “Well, anyway, I’ll leave you to do… whatever. Unpack, take a nap, watch tv, whatever you want really. Supper is at 8pm, so be out by then, okay? You haven’t met Mista or Giorno, but you’ll get to say hi then. They’re really fun, I promise. All you gotta do is not be a dick and I’m sure they’ll like you. But anyway, I’ll be outside if you need anything.” And before Fugo could even say thank you for helping him, the freckled boy had already darted out of the room. The front door opened and slammed shut, and Fugo could only assume that he had run out to tell that blonde guy Giorno and whoever Mista was about him.
… So, Narancia, huh? He’s weird, to say the least. He went from yelling at him to teasing him at the drop of a hat, he was like a little spitfire or something. Fugo wasn’t sure he had ever met anybody like him before; it was annoying and refreshing at the same time. He’d have to apologize later for possibly hurting his hand, even though it seemed like the other was already over it. Still, Fugo wouldn’t get over it until he apologized for his actions. He might not want to be here, but if he had to talk to people he also didn’t want to make his time here worse by getting on everyone’s bad side.
Focusing back on his own things, Fugo forced himself to unpack right away. He folded some of his clothes in the dresser drawers and hung the rest in his closet, set up his laptop on his desk, put some books on his shelves, and switched the pillowcases with his personal red ones. He kept his backpack on the desk chair for now and put his empty luggage either into the closet or under the bed, wherever it fit. When he was finished, the room still looked plain, but it was at least better than before. It wasn’t like Fugo’s room at home was much better, anyway. It was much bigger, it had one of his pianos in front of his window and his awards, medals, and trophies hanging up over his bed, but besides that it was quite boring. He was never allowed to have knickknacks or posters or anything like that.
A yawn escaped his lips, and Fugo glanced over at the clock on the wall. It was only a little after 4pm, so he figured he could take a short nap and then maybe watch some tv until it was time to eat. It was weird having this much free time, he didn’t know what to really do with it. He gently sat on the bed and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was actually quite comfortable. It wasn’t as comfortable as his bed at home, but it was much better than what he was expecting. He could deal with this until he got picked up again, he hopefully just had to make it through the month. Fugo’s head hit the soft pillow and he moved his light blond hair out of his face, taking in his new temporary room one last time before closing his eyes. He knew once he began work tomorrow that he was going to start full on hating it here again, but for now he pushed those worries away and let himself drift off to the quiet sound of the ceiling fan spinning above him.