Fugo felt like the world was crumbling around him.

The second he laid eyes on the body, everything seemed to slow to the point where time felt like it had stopped but only for him. Giorno's body was suspended a meter above Fugo, impaled on the iron bars of the gates that had somehow broken apart without anyone noticing. One through the leg, one through hip, one through the shoulder, two through the arms… five spikes.

Five death sentences.

Was he still screaming? Fugo couldn't tell, the noise had blurred into an unintelligible buzz that quickly turned into a sharp ringing in his ears that drowned out everything else.

Something touched him, touched his shoulder or maybe his back or maybe Fugo just imagined it but something touched him and he jerked away like he'd just been burned, stabbed, shot at. Lips pulled back in a feral snarl, violet eyes narrowed and burning with an anger unlike any other Fugo had ever felt before, he reached out and grabbed whoever it was.

Their body was yanked backwards, Fugo's fingers squeezing around the wrist until he felt like he could snap it in a heartbeat. No one could go there, no one could touch Narancia, Fugo would never let anyone near him again, no one could be trusted, any one of them had lied, was a liar, a traitor, and Fugo knew what to do with traitors, he knew-

A face appeared in front of him and Fugo didn't recognize it, the sharp green eyes the only thing that he could focus on, everything else a blur of rage and terror that was consuming any rational thoughts he had left.

Hands, hands were on his face, this person wasn't letting Fugo pull away, even as Fugo tried to yank out of their grip. His lips were moving but Fugo couldn't tell what he was saying, the only thing he could think was of Narancia, Narancia, Naran-

Something hit his cheek. Hard.

This person had slapped him.

Fugo felt the haze in his brain clear for a split second as rage bubbled up inside his chest, head swinging around to yell, shriek, kill-

"Fugo."

Fugo stopped. The ringing in his ears was fading away, the angry cloud was clearing from his vision, his cheek stung with a passion, and Bucciarati was standing in front of him looking… scared.

"…Bucciarati," Fugo rasped, his voice throaty and sore, maybe he really had kept screaming.

Bucciarati's eyes seemed to lighten as relief passed through the man's facial features.

"Yes, it's me. Fugo… Fugo, I need you to breathe. Slowly."

Fugo was confused, what did his breathing matter, but when he drew in a shaky breath, his lungs burned so ferociously that he wondered if he'd stopped breathing altogether.

"Yes, that's it," Bucciarati said, his words carefully restrained and devoid of emotion. "Now, you need to send it back, okay?"

What?

"Send Purple Haze back."

But Fugo hadn't summoned his Stand, hadn't even thought of it, but… but now that he could hear again, there was a clear hissing noise behind him. Fugo turned slowly to see Purple Haze crouched behind him, looking all too feral again as if it would attack anyone that came close to it. Its golden eyes were slanted, vapor pouring from its stitched mouth as it hissed and shrieked and violently shook.

He… He had lost control. Again. Haze, as if noticing Fugo was watching it, looked up at him, its eyes bleak and- and sad, and in that instant, Fugo knew. He had lost control… but Haze hadn't. Haze was… protecting him.

His Stand stood and took a step towards Fugo. Fugo could hear Bucciarati's sharp intake of breath from behind him, likely from fear, but ignored it. As Haze slowly approached, Fugo reached out his hand.

Despite his capo's cry to get away from it, Fugo remained still. Purple Haze eyed his hand and, after a second, placed its own within Fugo's. Haze vanished back inside of Fugo and the grief crushed him.

Fugo felt the ground under his hands before he registered that he'd fallen, his chest constricted to the point of hyperventilation as he desperately tried to hold back everything. A hand came to rest on his shoulder and he looked up to see Bucciarati staring down at him uncertainly.

"I'm sorry."

It was all Fugo could think to say, all he could really manage to get out right now.

"Don't," was all that Bucciarati said back but Fugo somehow understood what he meant. There was no excuse for Fugo losing control like that and yet there was no need for excuses either. Bucciarati understood.

When the capo offered his hand a second later, Fugo took it, observing that his hand was trembling like a leaf but felt detached from his own body. Bucciarati pulled Fugo to his feet, resting his hand on the small of Fugo's back to guide him towards where the others were.

To where Narancia was.

They'd gotten him down, when had they gotten him down? When had Fugo backed so far away from the gates? How much time had he lost in his rage-fueled haze?

Giorno, Fugo knew it was Giorno but seeing Narancia was almost too much for him to bear, was crouched beside his own body that was lying motionless on the ground as the wounds healed themselves.

"I'm almost done," Giorno said, his voice devoid of emotion. "It's good you noticed so quickly, Fugo."

Giorno sounded like he was pointedly avoiding any mention of Fugo losing it and Fugo didn't know whether to be thankful for it or not. Instead, he just remained silent as he halted a bit away from the others and tried to control his ragged breathing. Mista was glaring at him but when Fugo made eye contact with him, he quickly averted his gaze and Fugo wondered what he'd done before remembering that he didn't even really know.

Abbacchio had gone to Bucciarati and the pair were muttering to each other, about what, Fugo didn't know, but they kept making furtive glances towards Bucciarati's real body out in the court of the Colosseum. Fugo could guess what they were talking about.

An exclamation from Mista drew Fugo's attention back to the group and he looked to see that Giorno's body had opened its eyes.

"You did it!" Mista was saying, relief clear in his voice but Fugo felt his own heart sink.

Whatever the gunman was saying, Fugo didn't hear it, too busy pushing his way through them to reach the body that once held Narancia's consciousness. The green eyes were vacant and stared at nothing, even when Fugo lifted the golden-haired head up to stare it in the eyes.

"No…" Giorno had arrived at the same conclusion then, but it was strange to hear the blond's voice echo from two different bodies at once. "Mista, this is… an empty… shell."

Fugo couldn't pull his eyes away from the face that had been so full of life, so bright and joyful and alive just minutes before. Fugo had been right there, he'd been right next to him, had held Narancia's hand in his own and had believed, in spite of everything, that things might have been alright after all.

That hand was reattached but now lifeless and cold.

"The wounds he received…" Giorno was saying, "have already been healed by my Gold Experience. But… he's already gone. Narancia… isn't…"

"No," Fugo rasped. "No, there- there must be… something…"

"I…" Giorno's voice trailed off and Fugo watched as tears formed in the blond corpse's eyes. "There's nothing I can do… I didn't make it in time… it's so empty that I could slip right back in… I could coexist in both bodies… that's just how… empty this body is."

As if punctuating his words, ruining the last shred of hope Fugo was holding onto, the blond boy's eyes flew open and the body Fugo was holding jerked violently in his grasp. There was a soft thud to Fugo's left and he slowly turned to see Narancia's body lying motionless on the ground.

Fugo couldn't throw Giorno out of his lap fast enough, scrambling as quick as he could to Narancia's side, the Narancia he truly knew, who was familiar and warm and- and- dead.

As gently as he could, Fugo turned the boy's lifeless body onto its back, holding Narancia's head in his arms to see those gorgeous violet eyes clouded over. A choked sob struggled its way out of Fugo's throat as he reached out with a shaky hand to shut them. A drop of water fell onto Narancia's cheek, rolling down the graying skin before falling to the stone floor and that was all Fugo could take.

He threw back his head and wailed.


Mista had refused to even acknowledge the possibility that Giorno could fail.

He hadn't failed with Mista, hadn't failed with Abbacchio, hadn't failed with any of them… and yet he had, hadn't he? With Bucciarati. And now with- with Narancia.

It was like Fugo had become a different person- no, less than that. Like he wasn't a person at all. That first scream, the one that told them all what had happened, had at least sounded human. But Fugo hadn't stopped screaming.

Something had fallen from the blond's hand, another hand, Mista realized, as Fugo had staggered backwards clutching at his head shrieking. Those cries had rapidly devolved into something that could only be described as roars.

When Fugo had grabbed Giorno, trying to stop the boy from getting to Narancia, it had taken both Mista and Abbacchio to pull him back, such inhuman strength as if Fugo had discarded any shred of humanity he had within him in his grief. Giorno's wrist had nearly been broken, large ugly bruises rapidly forming from where Fugo's fingers had dug into the skin. And then Haze had appeared and things had gotten worse.

Bucciarati had gotten Giorno's body down from the iron bars at that point, Giorno was free to start healing, but now they had to deal with Purple Haze.

Except when Haze had appeared, it was like Fugo had stopped. The roars and screams softened to whimpers and Fugo's eyes had glassed over like he wasn't even sane anymore but he'd at least stopped being violent. And Haze… it had just sat there. Watching them.

Mista was honestly surprised that Bucciarati had talked Fugo down from that.

He'd been expecting to lose both Narancia and Fugo all at once.

With instructions to keep an eye out for anything, anything at all, since the radar was- Mista shook his head. He'd pushed all those thoughts down as he sent out Pistols to survey the area, trying to keep a clear head. He needed to protect them. All of them.

Mista hadn't realized he was glaring at Fugo until the blond had made eye contact with him. Mista had to look away, guilt swelling in the pit of his stomach. He knew it was because Fugo had hurt Giorno, but even that felt selfish at this point. That shouldn't matter right now and Mista was disgusted with himself that it had. Especially when that wasn't even someone he knew. Fugo didn't look like that, he didn't look dead on his feet. Like his will to live was gone.

When Giorno's body had opened its eyes, Mista had truly believed the worst was over.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

It was Giorno's voice that spoke when its body did, but to hear two voices at once echo the same words at the exact same time was eerie. Giorno's body's lips were moving, sound was coming out, but the body was still lifeless. Mista was staring at a talking corpse.

And then, to hear Giorno admit that he hadn't made it in time… somehow, that held more weight than anything else the blond could've said.

Mista had knelt beside Giorno when the blond had re-entered his own body, trying to catch his breath as if his soul hadn't quite readjusted to this old body that had lain there dead for Mista didn't know how long.

Giorno was staring at Narancia- no, at Fugo. Who was cradling Narancia's lifeless body with a kind of gentleness Mista hadn't thought the blond was capable of showing.

Mista could already feel his own tears start to well up as it sunk in that Narancia was truly gone when Fugo started to wail. He'd never seen anyone, let alone Fugo, cry like that before, big, fat tears, streaming endlessly down the blond's cheeks as he screamed and sobbed and mourned.

Mista hoped, prayed to any Gods that were listening, that he'd never have to hear such a heartbreaking sound ever again.


So this was what it felt like to be broken.

Fugo's chest was hollow, barren, the only thing left inside of his heart being nothing. A complete absence of anything at all.

And yet it hurt.

Fugo had felt pain before, felt his insides quite literally turn themselves out, bullets burrow themselves into his flesh, broken bones, concussions, stab wounds, he'd felt them all.

And yet nothing could compare to this.

It wasn't sharp nor was it stabbing, but the dull pain that ached with every single beat of a heart that should really just die off already was worse than anything he'd ever felt before. It caught his breath, it pounded in his head, it twisted his stomach until he knew he'd puke if there was anything that would come out.

Fugo didn't want to cry but it just wouldn't stop. It was like an ocean was flowing out of him, trying to take all the pain and grief but it would never be enough because it would never end. Fugo would hate himself for the rest of his life for this.

For failing Narancia.

"This is too sudden…" he heard someone, probably Giorno, say and couldn't help but agree.

There were hands on his shoulders and Fugo could hardly clear his eyes long enough to see Bucciarati staring down at him. Bucciarati's hands reached down to cover Fugo's, carefully pulling his arms away from where they'd been squeezing Narancia's corpse too tightly.

The capo knelt beside him, opened his arms, and Fugo fell into them.

It was all too easy to give in and sob, the warm embrace of Bucciarati's arms enveloping him as Fugo zoned in on the steady beat of the capo's heart beneath his chest. If only Narancia felt the same way.

Fugo wasn't sure how long he'd stayed like that but it couldn't have been that long. There simply wasn't time for that; Fugo knew that. But it was all so raw.

"Bucciarati."

Abbacchio was there behind the capo, staring down at the pair of them impassively. Or at least trying to; Fugo could see the pain in Abbacchio's eyes, in his own eyes. He knew what he looked like, after all.

"I think you should hear this." Abbacchio gestured to where they'd left the turtle, left Polnareff, perched on one of the pillars.

Bucciarati nodded and Fugo was already pulling away, rubbing at his eyes. His sobs had thankfully died down but he was still crying and Fugo was both enraged that he couldn't stop himself and relieved that he could feel this way. He was a normal human after all.

Narancia's head was still there, still resting in Fugo's lap, and it looked almost like Narancia was sleeping.

Fugo listened to them talk, to Polnareff's theory of the Boss having split personalities, but he couldn't bring himself to care. A detached part of his brain, likely all that was left of his rational side, was telling him to pay attention, to help, that there was an inherent clue within all of that but that voice was distant. It was all too easy to shut it off.

"It's strange…"

Fugo looked up to see Giorno coming over to them, kneeling down to brush his fingers along Narancia's leg.

"This is dead, no breath, no heartbeat, but… I can sense life within his body. It's faint but it's there."

"Do you think-"

Giorno shook his head before Fugo could even voice his hopes. "It's likely that his body hasn't caught up to his soul. The remains of life within it are probably from me… from my soul."

"But it's not dead," Fugo rasped, the gears in his mind starting to turn. "His body, it's not quite dead. What if… what if we kept it alive? What if the cells didn't die? Would it bring him back? Is there a chance?"

"I-I don't…" Giorno's voice trailed off as the blond examined Fugo's face before looking away. "I don't know. It's not likely."

"But it's not impossible."

"…No. I suppose there would be a slim chance. But Gold Experience can't-"

"But I can." Giorno looked at him in confusion. "Haze, it- it can use its virus. The virus can travel independently through his body, it doesn't need Narancia to have circulation, as long as it can move, I-I can direct it to his cells, I can keep his blood oxygenated, maybe even use the virus to get it flowing again, we just-"

"-have to counteract the replication of the virus within Narancia's body," Giorno finished, the boy's green eyes wide. "Yes, I see what you're saying. But Fugo, if you aren't careful, you could be-"

"It doesn't matter," Fugo interrupted. "Nothing matters. Nothing but him. Please, Giorno. You have to trust me."

Giorno's brow furrowed, a fervent glance shot at the others who seemed to be deciding where to go from here. Fugo could hear them talking about Bucciarati's body.

"There's no time; Giorno, please."

Something in his plea must have worked because Giorno sighed before opening his eyes and Fugo recognized the determination within them.

"We're going to have to leave you both behind here," the blond warned.

"That's fine," Fugo said. "I wouldn't have left him either way. We'll aim for the mouth, alright?"

Giorno nodded. Simultaneously, both Gold Experience and Purple Haze appeared beside the boys. Fugo looked at Haze, his Stand staring back at him expressionlessly. 'Please,' he willed his Stand. 'Please. We can do this.'

"On the count of three," Fugo said, ignoring the cries of shock from the others behind them. "One… two… three!"

Haze's fist slammed into Narancia's open mouth, the telltale cracking hiss of the virus breaking out of the capsule subduing the instant Gold Experience punched the capsule as well.

"What are you both doing?!"

That was Bucciarati, stopping a meter away from Fugo and Giorno to stare at them in horror. Before Fugo could even attempt to explain, Giorno stood. The blond glanced at Fugo before turning to tell the capo, "It doesn't matter; I'll explain later. Fugo, do what you can."

Bucciarati looked like he wanted to argue more but Giorno had already grabbed the capo's arm and was guiding him away, whispering softly to him. Whatever he said must've worked before, after one final look at Fugo, the capo nodded his head and turned away.

The echo of footsteps filled the stone hall as the others retreated after Silver Chariot and Fugo was left alone with nothing but himself, his Stand, and a corpse.

Purple Haze was staring at Narancia's body, and Fugo could swear it almost looked sad.

"It'll be alright," Fugo rasped as his Stand turned to stare at him. "I believe in you, Haze. We can do this. Together."

Fugo still wasn't quite sure what Purple Haze's new capabilities were, just that the virus had changed since he'd accepted Haze as his own. Fugo had gained control but he had gained something more, unlocked some sort of barrier that had prevented Haze from using its full abilities up until now. Fugo had had no way of knowing what it was that had changed, had no test subjects to work with. Until now.

Whatever occurred wouldn't matter; the worst had already happened.

When Fugo looked up again, Haze was reaching towards him, and before he could do anything, his Stand had touched Fugo's shoulder, and he knew.

He could feel it; could feel the way the virus, those tiny microscopic capsules, were working their way through Narancia's mucous membranes into his veins, flowing through the arteries to the lungs and reaching the stagnant blood cells to push them into movement once again. Viruses were not alive and Stands were not alive but it felt… it felt alive. Like the virus had a mind of its own, like the things it was doing were active choices and beyond the normal capabilities of any known real virus.

Fugo heard a soft sigh of breath and knew it had come from Narancia, from this empty shell attempting to breathe again.

By all accounts, that should've been all it took and yet the body was still cold. There was still no consciousness within it and Fugo was forced to reckon with something he'd never believed in.

"Do they truly exist," Fugo muttered to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. "Are souls… real?"

It wasn't scientific, it wasn't rational, it denied all logical thought and thus Fugo had never believed in them. Consciousness was simply a behavior formed by the complex synapses the brain sent to the rest of the body; it was not from a soul and not gifted by a higher being. Fugo had always believed in that.

Narancia had not. Narancia had argued on more than one occasion that everyone had a soul, that God is real and watching over everyone, and that good people would go to good places when they died. It was what Narancia's mother had always told him so it was something that Narancia had wholeheartedly believed no matter what Fugo would say.

He still wasn't sure, but he wasn't certain they were a lie now. With the existence of Stands, perhaps souls weren't so farfetched, perhaps God was real after all, perhaps science wasn't all there was.

This was the only way to save Narancia, however unlikely it was. Fugo was not above grasping at straws; it was all he could hold onto anymore.

"Please," Fugo murmured, clasping his hands together like he'd seen Narancia do the few times he'd caught the boy praying. It was just a poor imitation but it was all he could do. "I might be wrong. This might do nothing at all, but at this point, I'll do anything, give anything. Even pray to something that might not even be able to listen."

If souls could be real, surely miracles could too?

"So that no one can hurt you anymore…" Fugo whispered, opening his eyes to bend down and rest his forehead against Narancia's as he felt tears welling up again. "Never again. I promise that I will take you back home."

Where they would eat margherita pizza and Fugo would teach Narancia math and Narancia would go to school and Fugo would wait for him outside the school gates to walk back home together, laughing and holding hands and walking underneath the jasmine vines that grew along Narancia's apartment building that he loved so much.

Fugo remembered when Narancia had picked a few of the flowers and given them to Fugo one day, saying that Fugo seemed sad. Narancia had had no way of knowing it was the two year anniversary of when his parents disowned him.

Fugo had cried then and he was crying now.

"Please, Narancia," Fugo whimpered against the brunet's skin. "Please. Just come back."