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The sun beat down relentlessly on the fishing piers of Naples. Workers passed by busily, carrying wooden crates from one end to another as the sun continued to shine down upon their tanned skin. The summer air felt cool, but even that could not diminish the constant heat. The days were long. The nights were short. The Naples sun did not know how- could not have known how- to stop.
Pannacotta Fugo, a young man with keen eyes and a melancholic smile, worked the piers of Naples. His main duties, although they differed from day to day, mainly consisted of signaling boats to shore or assisting in the send-off of fishing vessels. The work, albeit a bit tedious, was nothing that Pannacotta had the luxury of complaining about. As a poor man with nothing to his name, the job had graciously been handed to him after he had turned sixteen. Pannacotta had left the orphanage with no more than 50,000 lire in his pocket and a verbal promise made by a man dressed in all white.
The sun was unbearable, but Pannacotta did not mind. Despite the constant outdoor work given to him, it seemed that Pannacotta’s skin refused to tan. His pale skin echoed the same colour of his hair, a striking white-blond.
Despite working the piers for years, Pannacotta had not once set foot outside the city of Naples. Was it fear? Was it reluctance? There were no words that could accurately describe the feelings he had towards such weakness. One day, Pannacotta would often chide himself, he would like to travel down the Gulf of Naples and bask in the sun. The sea would engulf him, surround him, and there he would be at peace. The constant anger and misery would be long forgotten with such a trip. Oh, how grand was such a dream ! Yet, Pannacotta doubted himself. The dream would never come into fruition as long as he stayed a coward .
The day’s work was finally over. It was the last day of the week, which often meant that the pier workers would travel downtown once they had clocked out, choosing to spend the night in one of the many bars that littered the town streets. On the other hand, Pannacotta eagerly counted down the minutes until he could finally leave. While his peers drowned their sorrows in alcohol throughout the night, Pannacotta traveled to the forgotten seaside shrine that stood on a cliff near his home.
Pannacotta could not put a finger on the shrine’s exact age. Its marbled exterior had crumbled with the passing years, leaving only traces of ancient words and cryptic engravings in its wake. The inside of the shrine was painted with well-preserved images of cherubs and famed gods of times long gone. In the center of the painting was a depiction of a young man no older than Pannacotta himself. On his lips was a smile of a thousand words. His eyes shone with the brilliance of the burning sun. Clad in a deep, navy blue, the man looked content. Pannacotta was almost envious. How he wished to acquire that same happiness the man in the portrait had.
Pannacotta’s frequent visits could have been described as a ritual, really. It was every weekend that he would sink to his knees in front of the shrine and softly kiss the ground. His tears never tasted the same as they rolled down his cheeks and traced the tip of his tongue. Pannacotta had cried too many times to begin counting the reasons why. He loved the sun. If only he could reach out and touch it- just once.
That day, the sky became a purple haze. The sun crashed into the sea much earlier than it had in the past, leaving the city of Naples in a perpetual dusk until it was fully gone. Pannacotta arrived at his seaside cottage a mess- clothes sticking to his back as a bead of sweat inelegantly rolled down the side of his head. Although the sun had gone down, the humid air had settled at the bottom of the cliff where the cottage stood. It didn’t matter. Pannacotta did not notice the uncomfortable feeling, anyways.
There was something off. Pannacotta could tell that something had changed, although it was hard to say what . Instead, he dropped off his belongings in his home and poured himself a cup of tea. There was still enough time to visit the shrine. A quick drink would not hurt, especially given how dry his throat felt. Pannacotta quickly downed a cup. The tea tasted of chrysanthemum and roses, an odd combination that made the tips of his fingers tingle and the back of his neck shiver in delight.
Pannacotta climbed the steps to the shrine with ease, surveying the purple sky with a hint of regret. Would he ever feel satisfied? Would there ever be a time where he felt content with the life he lived? Perhaps there was no point in thinking this way. Nothing would happen until he took action. Pannacotta knew this fact well.
The young Italian man took a deep breath before ascending the last step of the stairwell. As he looked out to the horizon, there was something terribly wrong. The shrine had seemingly split in half- parts of the columns that held the shrine up had crumbled, leaving pieces of polished rock and marble splayed across the grass beneath it. The mural of the man in blue was gone. Instead, lying in front of the ruined shrine, was the body of a boy.
With dark skin that glowed under the setting sun and blond curls that framed his delicate features, the boy laid silently on the grassy terrain, one hand resting under his head while another clutched at the plants that surrounded him. The foliage that surrounded his body had grown exponentially from the last time Pannacotta had visited. A ring of flowers encompassed the area where the boy laid.
The sound of Pannacotta’s footsteps had quietly awakened the boy. With a flutter of long eyelashes and a simple yawn, the boy’s eyes slowly opened to the sight of Pannacotta leering over his body. There was no fear in his expression, nor any contempt. Who was this boy and how had he arrived at the edge of the cliff?
“Are you alright?” The words tumbled carelessly from Pannacotta’s mouth. His voice slightly broke with uncertainty. It was foolish of him to ask when the boy so clearly was not . Upon closer inspection, blood pooled at the boy’s feet. His clothes were soaked crimson. A slight grimace plastered the boy’s face as he made an effort to sit up.
“No, wait. I’ll help you.” Pannacotta found himself reaching to hold the boy up, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to steady him. The boy was much stronger than he seemed, nodding in agreement as he finally stood on two feet.
When the boy finally spoke, Pannacotta could not help but stifle a gasp. His words flowed like the finest honey, his tone sharp and clear.
“Thank you so much. I apologise for the sudden… intrusion.” The boy held his forehead with a frown, wincing in pain at the sudden ache. “May I ask where we are?”
Pannacotta’s eyes trailed from the boy’s blood-stained lips to his exposed chest. His clothing was battered and torn, something that was not necessarily a common sight within the seaside ports of Naples. This only furthered his curiosity about where this mysterious boy had come from.
“Napoli. We’re in Naples, Italy.”
Subconsciously, Pannacotta reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from the boy’s face. The boy did not flinch- he barely moved at all. Instead, the boy turned to face Pannacotta and let out a gracious chuckle.
“Thank you. You’re a kind man.” He smiled, placing a hand over Pannacotta’s own. “May I also ask your name?”
“Oh, I apologise,” The young man took a step back, surprised at his own actions. He had barely introduced himself. How impossibly rude of him ! “My name is Pannacotta Fugo. Most of my friends tend to call me Fugo, so please do the same.” Panacotta tried his best to smile. It was weak, but better than what he had expected.
The boy hummed with delight, closing his eyes as if to take in the Naples air. There was a moment of calm. The wind brushed past their cheeks, wiping away the invisible tears that Pannacotta often shed at the foot of the shrine. Tonight, there would be no tears. Instead, the wind had brought this boy to him instead.
“Fugo… I feel as if we have met before. This is no coincidence, I think. Some say that two people who are so dissimilar are bound- no, destined to meet. My name is Giorno Giovanna. Thank you, Fugo.”
In that moment, Pannacotta felt his heart swell with fondness for this boy. Giorno. Giorno Giovanna. Perhaps it was Giorno’s words that had persuaded him, but Pannacotta felt a certain familiarity with him too. As if the two had met before.
The pair traveled down the cliff in silence, watching as the sun quietly came to a halt in the sea. Thankfully, Pannacotta’s seaside cottage was not far. In only a few minutes, Giorno was sitting at the wooden table set up in the middle of the kitchen, rolling his wrists as Pannacotta desperately looked around for some form of first aid. The most he could procure from the bathroom counter was a few rolls of gauze and rubbing alcohol. Hopefully it would suffice.
When Pannacotta returned to the kitchen, Giorno had already rid of his bloody shirt, revealing numerous fresh cuts and scars that littered his entire body. The sight was horrific. How had such a gentle looking boy received such a deal of blows? With trembling hands, Pannacotta began to pat a dry cloth onto the opening of the glass alcohol bottle. Giorno looked out through the kitchen window. The sun had set. The sky was a pitch black canvas. The stars became the tools with which one could paint the skies.
“Ah-” Giorno’s voice hitched in his throat as the unfamiliar dampness of the cloth was tenderly rubbed into his wound. The alcohol stung, but it was nowhere near the pain that Giorno had gone through only moments before. “I didn’t think it was this bad…”
With furrowed brows, Pannacotta looked at the boy worriedly.
“The bleeding has stopped… But these wounds look serious. Do you need me to take you to the doctor? The nearest one should only be a short walk away. They would not turn away a patient in serious need-”
“Don’t bother. I’m perfectly alright.” Giorno coughed into his fist, a growing blush spread across his cheeks. “If it’s alright… May I stay here for the night? Words cannot describe how embarrassed I am to ask such a question, but I fear I have nowhere else to go…”
The question came as a surprise. Pannacotta had not considered this possibility. He smiled to himself.
“Of course. I was not planning on kicking you out anytime soon, especially with such injuries. I’m sorry I do not have the proper supplies to treat them.” Pannacotta took a seat across from Giorno and folded his hands together to stop them from shaking. Somehow, Giorno’s presence lit up the entire room. It was as if the boy was a constant beacon of light.
Giorno looked down at the floor, silent. It seemed that there was something on his mind, although even if there was, he did not say what. From where Pannacotta sat, he could see a portion of Giorno’s bare back. In the middle of his back were two deep, large gashes, spanning from his shoulder down to his torso. They were bloody, grotesque messes of wounds. Pus and dried blood caked around the edges. It didn’t seem as if Giorno had realised that Pannacotta had seen them.
“You’re a good man. I can tell that.” Giorno finally spoke up, hands wrung together as he did so. Was that a hint of reluctance in his voice? The other man could not tell. Instead, Giorno got up from his seat with a bit of difficulty, leaning harshly onto the table as he did so. With a limp walk towards Pannacotta, he leant down until he was inches away from the man’s face. The two men could practically feel each other’s breath on their cheeks.
“I…” Giorno’s voice was breathy, perhaps a bit agitated. He spoke with a simple reluctance, wondering if it was the right time to say something, anything. Humans only live once. That is what Giorno thought.
It didn’t matter, whatever Giorno was going to say next. Pannacotta craned his head and leaned in a bit closer, softly placing a kiss onto Giorno’s lips. He tasted of the sea. Salt caked the outside corners of his mouth. A piece of sand was stuck under his right eye.
The two smiled at each other, willingly letting go of any apprehension or hesitation that had clouded their judgement before. Giorno closed his eyes and let Pannacotta wipe the sand away from his face, caressing a side of his jaw as Pannacotta did so. There was something so inherently peaceful about Giorno that Pannacotta could not put a finger on. They had just met, but their connection spanned years. What was this feeling that now welled outside Pannacotta’s chest, threatening to burst at any time?
Pannacotta sighed into another kiss, finding Giorno’s hand on the table. Whatever this was- it felt nice. The sound of waves crashing against the cliff rang throughout his ears. The night felt long. For once, everything seemed alright.
☼
A month, no, two months. Two months had passed since that one fateful day. Pannacotta no longer visited the shrine, but felt the emptiness in his heart. Instead, on any free day he could find, he would travel down to the sandy beaches at the end of the cliff and pray near the coast. Giorno never followed. In fact, Giorno did not see the sun as anything too important. “My dear Fugo,” he would murmur through sweet kisses and desperate touches, “What do you see in that thing ? It is a constant presence in your life. Do you fear it may leave you soon?”
But how could Giorno have understood what he felt? There was no way to explain it. Pannacotta simply loved the sun. As a child in the orphanage, Pannacotta was frequently met with the cold, dark stone floors of the basement below. His only access to the outside world were the steel bars that separated him from the grass that grew just outside the small window. Pannacotta looked forward to the sun each night. The sun was the one thing that never changed- the one thing that would never let him down. For the sun always rose, no matter the occasion.
Two months. Pannacotta was unsure as to why Giorno had chosen to stay. The offer had been quite one sided. There was little money to Pannacotta’s name and it seemed as if Giorno had once came from an affluent family. It felt almost like an insult to stay. As if Pannacotta has been the one who needed saving.
Still, the two men had grown to tolerate each other. Most of the time, Pannacotta was out near the piers, carrying out his duties under the watchful eye of his employer, a stern man who went by the name of Bruno Bucciarati. While Pannacotta worked, Giorno stayed in the cottage. Soon, the boy had presented Pannacotta with a small farm that consisted of various poultry and vegetables. When asked where he had procured such resources, Giorno had only shook his head and placed a finger upon his lips. It didn’t matter. Finally, the two had a stable source of food.
On one particular night, Pannacotta lay awake in bed. He could not sleep, although he could not tell why. Something bothered him. He was perpetually having the same dream- ones of forgotten family and betrayed friends. It had been too long since Pannacotta had the ability to confidently call someone a friend . The dream made no sense. Still, being awake felt like a better alternative to such a sorrowful dream.
With his face buried in his hands, Pannacotta sat upright in bed. Recently, the sun had begun to set much earlier than it usually did. It was the peak of the summer’s heat. The sun should have set around ten in the afternoon. Now, it set around seven. It was peculiar. During such times, Giorno would often retreat into his own room, only coming out when he deemed it fit.
Looking out of his bedroom window, Pannacotta noticed how the moon spilled through the curtains and onto the wood floor. It covered the ground like a winter’s first frost. Pannacotta felt as if he could reach out and feel the cold touch of snow.
A small knock on his door awoke Pannacotta from his idle musings. Muttering a small invitation to come in, Giorno appeared at the entrance, quietly closing the door as he set foot in the room. Wordlessly, Giorno sat on the bed close to where Pannacotta also sat. Despite the darkness, Giorno could see that Pannacotta was crying. The boy grasped Pannacotta’s hand and squeezed hard. Before he could even process the tears he had shed, Giorno had kissed his face dry, licking away any traces of sadness that were left.
“Why do you cry?” Giorno whispered, running his thumb across the other man’s knuckles.
Pannacotta shook his head solemnly. How could he answer? Even he did not know the true reasoning.
“Don’t you think the sun has begun setting too early? Each day the moon inches closer and closer to its ascension. Haven’t you noticed?”
The despair in Pannacotta’s voice was painfully evident. Giorno winced at the sound, but stood his ground. He squeezed the man’s hand even harder this time.
“I… I have not. I did think the sky appeared a lovely shade of lavender, don’t you agree?”
Pannacotta was quiet. His temper had recently been quelled, but Giorno’s sudden denial had awoken something in him. This was the anger that he feared in himself. His true face. The one that no one would be able to love.
Pannacotta removed his hand from Giorno’s grip.
“Are you sure? Perhaps it is just me.” His voice trailed off. He refused to believe that it was only him who felt this way. It couldn’t be. Why did Giorno hate him so?
For a brief moment, Giorno did not say a single word. Perhaps he was lost in thought, wondering how to respond. In the end, the boy reached across the other side of the bed and joined Pannacotta. He wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, burying his head deeper into his chest.
Something in Pannacotta’s stomach churned. For a second, he could have sworn he was ready to scream at Giorno to leave. Somehow, his anger had been satiated. There was no longer a sudden urge to release his rage. The feeling was instead replaced with an uncomfortable guilt that sank to the bottom of his soul. How could he accept such affection as someone who deserved so little?
Giorno created a rough mark near Pannacotta’s collarbone. It bloomed a dirty red, but both of them knew that it would soon turn a shallow violet. Pannacotta allowed himself to get lost with the present. He was with Giorno and that was all that mattered. Pannacotta took Giorno’s hand once more and gripped tightly. There was something so endearing about the boy next to him. Pannacotta leaned back into the bed frame and spoke.
“Giorno Giovanna… I want to know you more. I want to know every part of you, good or bad. Let my fingers be the pen and ink that writes over your parchment, your skin. Let me memorise each of your strengths and flaws. I will dedicate my life to be by your side.”
Giorno felt Pannacotta place a wet, sloppy kiss onto his fingertips. One by one, each finger was given a loving farewell into the next morning. When there was no more room left for sweet nothings and soft touches, the two men fell asleep in each other’s arms. Oh, how they wished to stay like this forever !
☼
Summer came and went with the passing of seasons. The long-forgotten trees that stood outside the cottage suddenly bloomed with the autumnal wind, creating paths of fallen petals whenever they swayed with the sudden breeze. Giorno now felt comfortable enough to venture into the city as long as Pannacotta was by his side. On the days that Pannacotta did not work, the two would stop by various vendors, picking up anything that they so desired for the week. It was domestic. It felt charming.
That day had been cool. The autumn wind slashed at their bare arms, bringing out goosebumps and warm fingertips. As the wind grew to a fever pitch, Giorno dug his fingers deeper into Pannacotta’s arm. In another hand carried a small packet of strawberry seeds. They had planned on rotating out their crops for the season. Strawberries were a summer plant, but Giorno had insisted that they could make it work.
Giorno had been right- Pannacotta would soon learn not to doubt his words. The strawberries grew, producing sweet white flowers that looked particularly pleasant when tucked behind Giorno’s ear. His golden locks contrasted nicely with the pure porcelain colour the flowers took on.
The two sat down at the worn kitchen table. Numerous knife marks were strewn about the wood grain, creating uneven surfaces with which one could set down plates and utensils. Giorno didn’t mind. The boy placed a bowl full of delicately rinsed strawberries onto the table, picking one up as he did so to inspect it in the light. The fruit was a brilliant, deep red. As Giorno turned around to offer the berry to the man in front of him, he could not help but laugh. Pannacotta had blushed the same colour as the strawberry.
“The breeze is most certainly stronger given how close we are to the sea.” Giorno sat down once more, plucking a strawberry from the bowl before popping it into his mouth with a single bite. Its pink juice escaped his mouth, running down his chin as he spoke. “Or do you think it is perhaps just us?”
Pannacotta leaned forward and swiped his thumb alongside the bottom of Giorno’s lip.
“No… I think it may very well just be the weather. Things have been odd this year. There are less ships arriving at the port. Fears of turbulent weather, they say.”
Giorno nodded. His wounds had begun to heal, but the scars would always be there. He frowned. He had once been known for his pure complexion and untainted soul. These ugly, red and brown marks did not suit him well.
“Why do you ask?” Pannacotta’s worried tone pierced through Giorno’s daydreams. There was no point in reminiscing about forgotten times. To live in the present… wasn’t that man’s entire purpose?
“Oh, my dear Fugo. There’s no reason. Here,” Giorno took another strawberry and placed it gently into the other man’s mouth. “Let’s eat.”
☼
The winter was long and hard. Never once had Pannacotta seen such a devastating season, one that took away crops and had an iron grip on those who survived or died trying. Pannacotta’s salary was just enough to pay for the coal that lit the boiler during the dead of night. Even with such a contraption, its heat only reached so far. During the afternoon, Pannacotta and Giorno would huddle together under the thin sheets they owned. With a book in one hand and another clasped around Giorno’s shoulder, Pannacotta read.
“That is the book we picked up last fall. What is it about?” Giorno questioned, running a hand over Pannacotta’s toned chest. It was not as if he could read himself, but hearing his lover’s words was far better than listening to his own conscious spell out each and every tone and syllable.
“Oh, this?” Pannacotta flipped the book around and looked at the cover. He chuckled. “It’s nothing horribly entertaining. It’s an encyclopedia of avian species. Its contents are quite fascinating, however. I have never ventured outside of the city, so there are many things I do not know.”
Giorno giggled against Pannacotta’s shoulders, hands finding their way to caress his soft, white hair. All over his exposed skin, Giorno left a flutter of gentle kisses, relishing in the feeling whenever Pannacotta shivered from the touch.
“Which species has caught your attention the most?” Giorno’s sly grin made its way to Pannacotta’s ears, harshly biting down on the man’s earlobe. Blood rushed to Pannacotta’s head. Such a sensation… it had to have been sinful.
Pannacotta’s hand moved down to Giorno’s waist and pulled the boy closer to him. The warmth that radiated from the other’s body was unimaginable. There was no need for the boiler at that point. Giorno’s warmth was enough to keep him alive through even the worst of snowstorms. Even as the wind howled and rapped upon the glass windows, Giorno was there for him. Pannacotta wanted to thank him in a way, but didn’t understand how. He had never been in this position before.
“The swan… it enchants me. It’s feathers are…” Pannacotta trailed off, subconsciously tracing the outline of the swan diagram that had been printed onto the worn pages. Even as he spoke, the man did not understand what destination his words were trying to arrive at. They fell out of his mouth carelessly, spilling across his lap with no hope of recollection. Giorno never minded this.
It was laughable to think so hard about such a trivial topic. Pannacotta decided to change the topic.
“Giogio… do you think that perhaps the sun is unhappy? It has been so long since I’ve seen its face in the sky.”
This caught Giorno’s attention. He briefly stopped his actions, pausing for a moment as if to contemplate what to say. Carefully, he chose his words, stringing each one together with the most meticulous thread.
“I don’t think so. There is no reason for the sun to be unhappy these days. I think the sun is quite content, actually.” The boy did not mention the winter season, for this was not what Pannacotta had meant. The two had lived together long enough that it was now common knowledge whenever they discussed such matters.
“Well, I’d like to see for myself one day. I’d like to reach out and touch the sun.” Pannacotta was rambling now, unaware of the sudden frown that now appeared plastered across Giorno’s face. “All my life I have wondered what it would be like to reach such heights. I do not think I can live any longer if I do not achieve such dreams. The sun- it has given me so much more than I have given it in return. How could I ever repay such a deed?”
Giorno’s hands moved to shut the book. Pannacotta allowed this, too entranced with his own musings to truly notice the difference.
“It’s a lost cause, Fugo. You can’t.” His voice was quiet, miniscule. It was not much of a whisper either. Giorno sounded… defeated.
The rest of the night was more of a blur. Unlike other nights, the two men covered their own sorrows and tears with an exchange of kisses and murmurs. Pannacotta melted under Giorno’s touch, while the other boy would grip at the bedsheets below him with restrained pleasure. There were only sickly sweet kisses and nothing more. Pannacotta could not bring himself to do anything else beyond that threshold.
The night was long. Once Giorno was sure Pannacotta had fallen asleep, he slipped out of bed, tucking the sheets closer to Pannacotta's body so as not to wake him up with the sudden emptiness of the space next to him. With one swift look behind his back, Giorno left the room soundlessly. He would not come back until the early sunrise, in which the sun miraculously hung in the sky for the first time in weeks. The sky was a pale, innocent blue. Pannacotta looked up to the empty sky with curiosity.
He had not been asleep that night. He wondered where Giorno had gone.
☼
Spring came with a flurry of candied violets and honey-laced teas. The flowers bloomed once more and the grass had peaked out from the ground, surrounding the seaside cottage in small emerald clumps. Ships had started to go out to sea once more, so Pannacotta ventured back to work, greeted with familiar faces and smiles. Giorno, on the other hand, stayed at home, tending to the garden that had grown twice in size since its first creation.
Out on the piers, Pannacotta noticed that the sun seemed to shine even brighter as he stood on the wooden docks. Even as he walked home, no matter the time, the sun would illuminate his path wherever he went. It had been a long time since he had last visited the shrine, although he had made numerous mental notes to himself to one day revisit. The shrine had been somewhat of a godsend for the past three years. Perhaps that youthful god, painted onto the back of the shrine, had given him a gift in the form of his lover. It was childish talk, of course, but there was no harm in these daydreams.
Pannacotta returned from work and was immediately met with Giorno standing outside the cottage, crouched down to observe a plant that grew near the brick walls of the building. As soon as he heard the sound of growing footsteps, Giorno turned around and fell into Pannacotta’s arms. The man twisted one of those bright, golden curls around his index finger and laughed. He had only been gone for a few hours, nothing more.
“Ah ! ” Giorno exclaimed, a bit surprised at his own actions. He pushed Pannacotta away, a finger tracing his bottom lip. “I need to show you something. Come, let’s go.” He gestured for the other to follow him, smiling when Pannacotta could only dutifully nod his head and agree.
A little ways down the side of the cliff, near the sandy beaches, was a space that Giorno had fashioned to simulate the look of a small pond. It was not too large, just big enough that it did not interfere with the roaring waves nor the mountainous terrain near it. In the pond were the bodies of two full-grown mute swans. Their bright feathers shone under the sun, creating one of the most pure whites that Pannacotta had ever had the pleasure of gazing upon in his entire life. The colour was beautiful. The swans’ eyes opened to reveal a gaze that knew nothing of the hardships of life. They were innocent in every possible way.
“But… but how?” It was all that Pannacotta could muster. He was at a loss for words.
“It doesn’t matter how, my dear Fugo.” Giorno laughed. The sound rang in his ear. Yes, Giorno’s laugh. It felt as if it was summer all over again. His laugh could only be described as one thing, his . Pannacotta held back the urge to clasp the boy’s face and plant the most desperate of kisses onto his eyelids. Oh, how he loved the boy before him.
“And look,” Giorno grew closer, stealing a quick glance at the swans. They had drifted closer to each other in the makeshift pond, resting their heads against each other’s necks. It was a lovely sight to see. “Close your eyes.”
Pannacotta slowly let his eyelids flutter downwards, feeling a sudden warmth in his right palm. His fingers were pried open and in them, Giorno placed an object. It almost felt like a glass shard, sharp and heavy, yet the warmth that Giorno had given it was nowhere near the sensation that Pannacotta would have expected from glass. When he opened his eyes and opened his fist, Pannacotta could not help but be taken aback. The glass shard was not glass after all- it was a small frog.
“Don’t you think it’s cute?” Giorno smiled from ear to ear, leaning closer as to spot Pannacotta’s expression. It was unbearable. The tears came a bit sooner than what Pannacotta would have liked.
“Of course,” The white-haired man rubbed at his eyes with the back of his free hand. They had quickly reddened, puffed to the point of extreme discomfort. “Just like you, don’t you agree?”
Giorno ran a hand through his hair and chuckled. “You flatter me.”
The rest of the day was dedicated to taking care of the new animals that had somehow found their way to the small brick cottage. The two men did not mind. Despite Pannacotta’s growing concern that he would not be able to control his emotions around such small, fragile creatures, Giorno continuously assured him that everything would be fine. Not once had Pannacotta let his temper get a hold of him when he was around the other. Everything would be fine as long as Giorno was there.
☼
Over the months, Pannacotta had begun to piece together the pattern in which Giorno would disappear for the night and return in the morning. During these times, Pannacotta would venture back down to the small pond near the cottage and visit the swans. As much as he hated the horrific, grotesque sounds of the swans when they cried in pain, it was something that had to happen. As Pannacotta plucked those beautiful, now blood-stained feathers from the birds, he was overcome with apathy. He loved Giorno. How could Giorno not understand his own admiration for the sun? God, Pannacotta loved the sun as much as he loved Giorno. It was a shame that the two could not see eye to eye on such an important issue. So, in silence, Pannacotta gathered feathers upon feathers and stuffed his collection into a knapsack that sat near the bottom of his closet. There, for weeks, they lay. Once in a while the man would take them out and wash the feathers under the moonlight. The dried blood was never a pleasant sight to see.
On one spring morning, Pannacotta gave a farewell to his lover. Instead of his regular work bag, on his shoulders was the bag full of swan feathers he had meticulously gathered from the past few weeks. In another suitcase held containers of solid wax and a box full of matches.
Down near the ports and out of sight from his superiors, Pannacotta sat. It would take the whole day, but eventually he had fashioned himself a pair of bright, ivory wings. They spanned his entire wingspan, towering over him as if they had been plucked straight from an angel. They were magnificent as they were beautiful. It was a shame that Giorno would never be able to see them in their full glory.
Pannacotta waited for the sun to set. Today, however, the sun hung in the sky for a bit longer than it usually did. Pannacotta knew this- he always counted the hours, the minutes, the seconds till sundown. He always did.
Once the purple sky had returned to a dull black, Pannacotta lit a lantern and traveled back to the seaside cottage with both wings stored securely in a back shed near the shrine on the cliff. The shrine had been ruined with neglect and age, even more so than what Pannacotta had first seen it appear as. It hurt. Once the wings were properly put away, the man moved closer to inspect the crumbled marble. Its damage was detrimental. The marks that covered its outside almost seemed manmade. Pannacotta shook his head. The only person who still remembered the shrine’s existence was him. The damage could have been the work of some sort of animal.
Pannacotta returned home to Giorno fast asleep in a small wooden chair near the entrance of the cottage. With a cheek resting on his fist, Giorno looked content. It was not until Pannacotta closed the door that Giorno suddenly awoke, eyes wide open as he frantically looked around the room with hazy vision.
“Oh, Fugo. It’s just you.” He breathed out, a hand on his beating chest. “Where did you go?”
“I just returned from work late, Giogio. It’s okay now.” Pannacotta shed his outershirt that was now riddled with sweat and hard labour. He dropped it to the floor with nonchalance.
Giorno looked concerned. He stood up from his chair with ease, walking closer to place a hand on one of Pannacotta’s bare shoulders. Oddly, the man felt cold. He was well below the average temperature that a human should have been.
“I just… I worry that you work yourself too hard. If it is needed, I can also find a job. I’ll help the both of us-”
Pannacotta grasped his hand firmly and held onto it tightly. The man shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“There is no need. I have said it before, I’m fine. You already do much work for us, I could never begin to repay you for your contributions.”
Giorno tapped his foot impatiently on the ground as if he wanted to say something. In the end, all he could do was bite down on his lower lip, hard enough that the skin broke and a bead of blood formed at the corners of his mouth. It tasted of iron and regret.
“I hope that you do not do anything foolish, Fugo. I mean it.” Giorno tilted his head as if this was more of a question than a general statement. The man in front of him nodded and reluctantly agreed.
“I hope so too.”
☼
A year had passed. Summer had crept upon the residents of Naples, whether they cherished the hot summer winds or not. The sun’s rays did not cease its shine, instead taking the opportunity to crawl into each and every crevice that it could find. Pannacotta did not mind this in the slightest bit. The sun felt good on his skin. His cold body was now restored by the coming heat.
How many times had he dreamt of such an occasion? It was impossible to count. Pannacotta Fugo was a young man of the age twenty. His lover, a man by the name of Giorno Giovanna, slept beside him peacefully, breath slowed by the temptation of rest. The sun had risen only moments before. There was no work to be done today- it was perfect.
Once he was dressed, Pannacotta kneeled down beside the men and grasped Giorno’s hand. It was warm, as it always was. With a tender touch, Pannacotta pressed his lips against the back of the other’s hand and let his slight breath linger for a beat longer. This was the time. Who knew when he would be back?
Giorno stirred in his sleep, the lack of Pannacotta’s presence alerting him of a change in bed.
“As long as I live,” Pannacotta began, murmuring the words against Giorno’s skin as he began to implant bites and kisses onto his hand and wrist. “You will have my body, my heart, and my soul. That is my hope, and that is my future.”
Giorno was awake. He gulped, unaware if Pannacotta had realised this.
Pannacotta’s face was clear. His oath was true.
“I am yours. My Giogio...”
The sunlight streamed through the curtains, covering the wooden floor with a brilliant gold. There was no time to waste. Pannacotta let go of Giorno’s hand and turned his back to the bed.
Outside, a cool breeze blew past the cottage. It tousled Pannacotta’s hair and covered the ground with pollen. He did not mind. The wind felt good as it whipped his skin. It was as if for once, there was a moment of clarity in his mind. For once, Pannacotta could think clearly. For himself. He had wanted to let go for so long. Nothing would ever change that fact.
In the sun, Pannacotta’s wings appeared a blazing white, dazzled with purples and reds and oranges that had not appeared when he had first fashioned them. The undertones of the weathers were a mirage of warm toned colours. Although he had no idea where they came from, who could complain? They were breathtaking. The wings’ appearance almost reflected the colours of the sunset that Pannacotta loved so much.
Upon the cliff, the city below looked so insignificant. The waves crashed against the stone wall. The trees below blushed with the rolling tides. A halo of seashells and seaglass had encompassed the beach.
Pannacotta shivered. The wings felt heavy upon his shoulders, but such a weight did not matter with the grand scheme of things. Besides, the wings should not have felt so heavy. Perhaps this was the guilt that he had remembered so clearly.
He jumped. There was no time to hesitate, and so Pannacotta jumped.
The first feeling of flight overtook his body. The wings had somehow worked, although it felt just like a dream to be able to experience such. The wind whipped against his skin, much more powerfully that he had initially expected. This was it. His one chance at redemption, freedom, whatever it was that he so desired. Had his nightmares ceased? Of course not. But Pannacotta did not think of that. Instead, there was a verbal promise to be made.
“I’ll see this through. I’ll come back to you, Giogio.” He muttered, flying closer to the sun as he did so. The heat was immense. The sun kissed his skin. If only Pannacotta could fly just a bit closer…
It was too late by the time Pannacotta realised that he had gone too far.
Just like that, as he reached out towards that grand, magnificent sun, Pannacotta’s wings began to melt. It had always been a risk- but in the moment, he did not care. Now, there was no hope of restoring those fallen feathers. Pannacotta hopelessly reached out towards the sun once more as he fell. His face had been burnt. His sight had been obscured.
Pannacotta closed his eyes and hit the waves with a dull thud. Was this the end?
☼
Giorno cradled the burnt, disfigured body of the foolish man in his arms. He brushed away a strand of hair that had stuck to his face from the droplets of sea water. Somewhere, a man was singing an old lover’s tune. It was almost midnight, yet the sun still hung in the sky with as much dignity as it had the day before. How could he have let this happen?
Giorno lifted the man’s hand and pressed his lips against the soft, wet skin. For the first time in his entire mortal life, Giorno wept. He wept with ferocity, screams and wails louder than any wave that Poseiden could create. Had he sacrificed his immortality for this ?
“My God,” Giorno mumbled against Pannacotta’s hand. It was limp, lifeless. Giorno had never experienced such devastation before. “What can I do to bring back the man I love?”
In the distance, lightning struck. No one knew how and no one knew where- but the thunder was heard throughout the city of Naples. Giorno gasped. There was his answer.
☼
The sun beat down relentlessly on the fishing piers of Naples. Workers passed by busily, carrying wooden crates from one end to another as the sun continued to shine down upon their tanned skin. The summer air felt cool, but even that could not detract from the constant heat. The days were short. The nights were long. The Naples sun finally knew how to stop.
Pannacotta Fugo looked at the long forgotten shrine that stood on the cliff near his home. Its marbled appearance had become worn with age, but depictions of cherubs and famed gods still adorned its walls. In the middle of the piece was an empty space, although its outline fit the shape of a man.
Had he been here before? Everything seemed so blurred.
Pannacotta Fugo looked at the shrine once more and turned his back. His body had been riddled with cuts and scars, some fresh, some old. What was most notable was the two large gashes that traveled down his back and filled the space like how a painter worked an empty canvas.
He sighed. There was work to be done. The sun would go down soon.