Fugo Pannacotta

The midnight air over the desolate, overgrown field on the outskirts of Naples was suffocatingly heavy, the quiet rustle of the tall grass the only sound breaking the pitch-black silence. The soil beneath your boots was slick with mud, but right now, it was rapidly staining a deep, dark crimson. You were lying flat on your back in the damp grass, your hand pressed weakly against the massive, burning laceration across your torso as your lifeblood pooled into the dirt. Giorno had promised to eliminate the narcotics trade entirely, and when you fell into a deep depression after losing everyone you loved in the old squad, you had dropped Passione, returning to the only thing you knew—leading an independent syndicate just to survive. Giorno didn't like it. He had sent Fugo to clean up the mess. Fugo stood directly over your fading body in the dim starlight, his green suit immaculate, his knuckles stark white as he held his breath, his mind operating on pure, mechanical detachment as he prepared to deliver the final, killing blow.

But as your breathing turned shallow and jagged, you didn't beg for mercy, and you didn't fight back. Instead, you looked straight up into his bloodshot eyes, your lips pulling into a slow, peaceful, and entirely unhurried smile through the pain. You would rather welcome the dark right here, knowing it was his hands taking your life, than stay alive just to watch another person you loved become a puppet under Giorno's ruthless rule.

The second that smile crossed your face, the light slowly starting to leave your eyes, Fugo's entire rigid posture completely, violently shattered. He didn't deliver the blow. He couldn't. The realization of what he was doing hit him like a truck, a low gasp tearing from the back of his throat as he dropped to his knees right in the blood-stained mud beside you.

"No... no, shut up! Don't you dare look at me like that!" Fugo violently whispered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, frantic whisper that was thick with tears as his long, slender fingers shot out to firmly frame your pale face. His hands were trembling so violently he could barely hold you steady, his usual cold authority completely short-circuiting into pure, desperate panic as he lifted your fading upper body off the ground and dragged you flush against his chest. He didn't care about Giorno's orders, and he didn't care about Passione's rules anymore; he scooped your limp, bleeding frame into his arms, lifting you completely off the grass. He carried you through the dark all the way back to his private, secluded safehouse, slamming the heavy wooden door shut and throwing you onto the mattress to desperately apply bandages to your chest. "You're not dying tonight! I am not letting you leave me too!" Fugo growled into the quiet room, his face burying heavily into the crook of your neck as he wrapped his arms like a tight, suffocating vice around your waist, his hot tears splashing against your cold skin as he pinned you to his side. "... Please, just keep breathing."