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Manic Depression

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This wasn't the first time fugo had left. Wasn't gonna be the last time either.
He was kind of sick of parties at this point. Then again, he’d always been some level of disgusted with the idea. He's not exactly the party animal type, and nobody needs to see him be a cry-drunk baby, since we all know college parties are practically flooded with alcohol. Fuck that, man.
Narancia, however, was. A party animal, that is. Good for him, fugo thought, its great that hes having a great time, with all his great new friends and, its not like fugo even really wanted to be there so why the fuck
Why the fuck is he hurting,

Mista, the singular decent friend of the three of them, genuinely offered to give him a ride back to their dorm, but after meeting eyes with the pretty blonde sophomore in his lap, fugo turned him down. Walking’s good for you anyways, he’d grunted, before walking all the way through the crowd of bouncing students, screaming to be heard by the person next to them because narancia had the volume up so loud,
That's how nara got invited to so many parties. People heard he made music, made fire playlists, and just assumed he'd be a good dj. One night, nara told him he kinda resented that, but fugo didnt entirely believe him. While yes, when narancia was in charge of music, he just put on a playlist and let it play, but the thing is, then he just joined the party.
Seemed like he was having fun.
As for the reason why fugo was here, it's because…
Well, when the only other people he knows on all of campus arent home, fugo gets lonely.
He hates that. He’d rather just suck it up and stand to the side, content to sip someone’s shitty experimental mixed drink, until he isn't, and then he leaves, and the other two follow soon after.
In a way that's part of why the others don't bug him about it. He can go home when he’s had enough (and fugo puts up with a lot of shit for them), so when Fugo’s had enough, they've probably had enough too
Its their little system, that's how it works.
Its their little cycle.

Fugo slips his earbuds in, stomping through a puddle and scowling. It's fuckin freezing, and after glancing at the sign on the bus stop and realizing the last bus had already come and gone, fugo was even more pissed. Not to mention his throbbing foot from kicking the pole of the sign. Stupid, stupid, stupid, fucking bullshit. Fuck. Gerard way gets him. Don't ask where Fugo found the cover of Under Pressure; find it yourself. Fuck everything. Who’s yelling? He takes out an earbud, and balks.

“Oh, hey Mista-”
“Fugo! I forgot to say-” He glances at the bus stop sign. “Oh. Well, that.”
Fugo kinda chuckles. Bitterly. Bitter like betrayal, or something equally stupidly worded. “Yes, that. I appreciate the effort. What happened to the blond?”
Mista blushes. “Ah, Giorno? He stayed at the party, went to go find Narancia for me, isn't that sweet?”
Fugo’s expression hardens somewhat. “Yeah. Sweet.” Sickly sweet. Fugo's brain feels like the aftertaste of cheap milk chocolate.
Mista kicks a pebble into the road, and it bounces against the cracked concrete. Fugo stares at Mista's shoes, the same beat-up red and black Nikes Bruno gave him freshman year, and something in his chest twists, like a big cat curling up on a recently-vacated couch cushion, warm and sharp and unmoving, yet peaceful.
They’re quiet for a while. Rain starts to fall, but neither moves.
“This one’s different, isn't it?” Mista whispers, just loud enough for fugo to twitch his head a centimeter towards the other to indicate he’s listening. “You didn't just leave because the people were too much.”
Fugo sighs. “What if I did?”
“Was it because of me? Was it because of Giorno?”
Fugo makes a face. “No. No.” then he reconsiders, really reconsiders. “Maybe. Sorta like a last straw, yeah?”
Mista looks to the shelter of the bus stop, but doesn't move. A raindrop hits Fugo's nose and he scrunches it. Mista scoots closer.
“And I'm assuming you didn't tell him yet.”
Fugo flinches, tensing and turning to face Mista properly. “Fuck, as if? You really think he’d take it seriously? You’re dumber than I thought, Guido.” Fugo seethes, pulling at his hair with both hands. “No. I didn't tell him, nor will I ever tell him!”
Mista closes his eyes and exhales sharply, eye twitching. Fugo mumbles a small “sorry.”
“Okay, jeez, sorry for asking. Just curious, okay?”
“Fuck, I know. Sorry, about-”
“I know,” Mista smiles, elbowing him gently. Fugo’s chest does that weird twisty thing again. Two cats. Little cat pile, right on his heart.
And they stand there in the rain, watching eachother's breath drift away in the cool air.

At one point, Fugo realizes there's something in his hand. Mista looks at him strangely, but doesn't move, and Fugo realizes they're holding hands. A thousand things run through his head, but Fugo doesn’t consider dropping it for a second. Mista squeezes tentatively, and Fugo pulls him a little closer. For body heat. For warmth, his brain supplies. He says aloud neither of these.
“This is fine, right?”
“Of course its fine, man” Mista breathes, rubbing gentle circles into Fugo’s scarred knuckles with his thumb. Too many encounters with a mirror, too many nights of rage and fear and breaking, inside and out. “I'm cool with it if you are. And i mean, this was your idea.”
It was. Fugo put his hand there. He shifts his weight. “I- i suppose you're right.” 
The two are silent again. Mista's hand is warm in his own frozen grip. Pannacotta takes a moment to compare all of the differences between their respective hands, and then the similarities.

Fugo offers an earbud, and Mista takes it. His warm breath gently wafts over fugo’s face, and fugo idly remarks that it smells like blueberries, lemons, and vodka. Mista chuckles.
“Right on the nose. Hard blueberry lemonade was Illuso’s contribution to the kitchen.”
Fugo snorts. “What a prick.” “I know, right? Good shit though.” “Mmm.”

Some part of Fugo is content to stay here forever, partially because he knows Mista would stick with him the whole time. In their little bubble. In a space where Fugo can breathe.

It gets overwhelming sometimes, with Narancia. He pulls Fugo in so many different directions, and he gets a... whiplash of sorts. love, hate, affection, rage, all back and forth and it's all so much and he loves every second but it. It hurts. It's scary. But Mista’s always there to calm them both down, and some part of Fugo decided long ago that he wouldn't have it any other way.
Mista’s his rock, Narancia’s his match, and between the three of them, Fugo’s felt like he's found something.

Mista’s head comes down to rest on Fugo’s shoulder, and Fugo squeezes their intertwined hands.
“Do you want to head back?” Mista mutters, close enough that something warm shoots up Fugo’s spine and his skin breaks into goosebumps. He turns his head to the side, their cheeks touching, and sighs.
“I don't know. Maybe.”
“Well for one, we could go back to the car and be warm and dry...”
Fugo ponders for a moment. “Yeah. I don't really want to move yet, though. I still want to be... mad.” He feels Mista smile against his cheek.
“You can still be mad. I'm not saying you have to go back and be happy about it, Panna,” Mista chuckles. “Only if you really want to, though. I'm fine with staying here if that's what you want.”
Fugo exhales sharply through his nose. “You’re too nice, Mista.”