<MAJOR SPOILERS FOR PART 5 PLOT AND DEATHS> <Minor references to PHF>
Fugo pays a visit to the graves of his friends and has a truckload of emotions.
Cold air filled Fugo's lungs as he trekked uphill. The road was full of shadows, not quite reached by the light of day. Daylight had yet to fully grace anything this morning, really. It was early, really early, but Fugo was up.
Because, today was important. It wasn't the day Fugo would begin properly working at Passione again, no, that would be tomorrow. Today would be important, but for an entirely different reason.
It was something that had been eating away at Fugo for what seemed like forever. The subject devoured more painfully than Purple Haze's virus, the only difference being that this did not eat at his flesh, but rather his mind.
When being accepted back in Passione, it was the first thing Fugo requested, or....the only thing really. It had taken a fair bit of courage, but eventually Fugo had asked.
After a long trek of gravely back roads, Fugo's feet finally hit fresh grass; the soft texture was a much appreciated change to the hard pebbles that had dug through the worn soles of Fugo's shoes like daggers, or the shores of crimson glass stained with sinners blood in the underworld.
Finally, radioactive violet eyes lifted to the sight before them; the top of a hill, a small, enclosed, and beautiful field overlooking the sea; or rather, overlooking a drug less harbor. Salty winds blew through, causing dainty little wildflowers that seemed to litter the area to laugh and toss their sunny heads this way and that.
Fugo flinched, but his eyes never left the three great tombstones centered in the field. The first light of day crept steadily along, bathing the clean grey stone in gold. It was certainly a good spot to lay the graves.
The taste of iron bled into Fugo's mouth as his teeth drew blood from his lip. Eyes still bound in place by none but he, Fugo let out a shaky breath. He did not know how long that breath had been held; maybe months.
This had been of Fugo's request, but that hardly seemed to matter. That fact did not make the experience any better. After what might've been minutes, or perhaps hours, Fugo couldn't really tell with his head spinning faster than a bullet, he began walking toward the tombs.
Slow and steady, his feet lay rest in front of them; his friends, long passed by now. All that remained being some rotting trio of corpses lay to rest below the fertile ground, with flowers all upon it.
At this point the golden light of a new dawn had completely washed on the grey stones, casting a long shadow on Fugo's kneeling form, and stopping just behind him.
Fugo's chapped lips opened, there was a moment of hesitation, before they closed again, and sealing up whatever words would've come. He couldn't think of what to say. Facing Mista had been hard enough, what could he possibly whisper at their graves?
A sickening, rancid taste came up from Fugo's throat as his eyes carefully studied the stones.
This one was Buccellati's grave, no doubt by the inscription. Fugo's eyes flitted across the deep carved letters, reading them time and time again, but no matter how many times his pupils read the surfaces of each and every grave, the words did not change.
They were dead, well and truly dead; lifeless bodies to be forgotten by the hazes of time. Bugs would devour their flesh like sugar, and Fugo would never see them in the proper light of day.