JJBA ONESHOTS

(Fugo-centric)'ghost in my home(better than being alone)

<Implied spoilers for major pt.5 plot points. Spoilers for La Squadra backstory>

Description: Ghost!Giorno au, La Squadra!Fugo au, canon fix-it! Everybody lives/nobody dies au. Elements of fugio. exploring Fugo's character.

Largely inspired by GHOST by nelward.

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   Fugo meets the ghost when he's fourteen and just barely joined a gang.

The boy draws a long, shaky breath. The cold night air isn't a relief, it burns in his lungs. He needs water.

He's still sweating cold, shivering, too thin, and shaky on his feet. He's just seen his soul and it terrifies him. Grotesque, ugly, volatile, and so, so deadly. Risotto told him he's lucky—Metallica manifests in my blood. It gives me iron poisoning. And Fugo gets that, and agrees, but it doesn't stop him from dwelling on how fucking horrifying the manifestation of his own fucking soul is.

Still, Purple Haze landed him a job.

Even if it's a job for killing people—and even if it's less of a job than a lifelong contract to sell his fucking soul. But then again, he would've been killed otherwise. Fugo's too dangerous to be let roam outside the organization. Alright, so he's a hit man now. It's not like he hasn't killed before.

A small sound breaks through his haze.

The rustle of rodent, or a bird, or some other animal. Fugo blinks, right. This area is overgrown. It was residential area, three years ago. But it became the sight of a gang war so brutal that even Fugo, swamped in his studies and caged by his parents, heard of it. Some number of civilians killed, some gang crushed by the organization—Passione—and the area totally destroyed.

Under the full moon, Fugo can still make out the skeletons of whatever apartments used to stand here. Left under government neglect, much of the walls have collapsed in on themselves, weakened by bullets, and further brought down by the elements. Although there've been talks of reconstruction efforts have been continually put off, leaving the site to be swallowed by vines and shrubs and bullet-scarred trees. If Fugo squints, he can make out the rusty stain of blood on some of the walls.

Then, something shifts. Moves. All white, and fast, and there's no sound.

Fugo freezes. Because that either means that he's imagined something—he hasn't—or there's someone very skilled stalking him. Like Risotto, who can move without so much as a peep of sound.

Purple Haze claws beneath his skin, throbs inside his skull.

Something moves, again. They aren't being very subtle.

Biting back his better instinct, Fugo says, "Who are you?"

There's a sound of startled surprise, a pair of bright green eyes warily gazing down at him from a broken window. The rest of the figure is obscured by shadow.

"You can see me." A voice states, and it sounds so young.

Suddenly, the hypothesis of some highly skilled rival gang member stalking him is looking less likely.

"Yeah," Fugo says, warily. "Why?"

And suddenly the figure isn't in the window, it's on the ground. Right in front of Fugo. The boy stare sup at Fugo, green eyes intent. Fugo doesn't know if it's just the moonlight, but the boy looks so silver. Skin as white as pearls, hair that's all shades of grey and white and silver and eyes that are so bright.