This is a tough one. Angsty, you could say. Sadly, it's rushed in some parts since I could not focus on writing this without getting extremely depressed. If you'd like to read almost 4k words about Fugo ONLY, then go ahead. He should be far more appreciated.

Dt-ing this one to mellafluous because she listened to my rants and noticed that writing this made me act.... strange; to ermacrs because she won't read a story about Fugo but she deserves the dt; to MilaS1202 and GremlinShenanigans because they're my besties and they made me realize Fugo is a great, but horribly underappreciated character. That's all!

Risotto x Reader or Bruno x Reader is coming next.

. . .

When Fugo came home, it was late night. Luckily, he brought the umbrella with him – otherwise he would've been drenched. It was pouring.

He opened it once again and left it to dry overnight. The downpour was unusually strong for that time of the year. He wondered how was Narancia doing on his mission. Hopefully, him, Mista and Leone found a proper place to stay. Bruno would make sure of it.

His brows furrowed as an unordinary sound reached his ears. Surely, the rain was persistent, but he reckoned it wasn't usually that loud. This was no good sign. He must've left the window open. He quickly took off his shoes and went to the source of the noise – the kitchen. Therein, he found his mind stammering at the scene yet to be processed.

Rain and moonlight both drizzled through the window, landing onto the counter and everything on there, then trickling down to the tiles with a patter. Above, Fugo spotted, were some spoon and a notebook, whose tainted cover he immediately recognized. The realization was horrifying. Curses filled the room.

He bolted towards the counter, grabbing and gripping its edges with desperation. Underneath him, he saw ink melting over the drenched papers. Words and numbers, gone. All of the exercises he prepared for Narancia – ruined.

So much precious time he'd wasted. Due to his negligence, irresponsibility – everything he'd been carefully collecting, devising, marking and creating just for Narancia, became useless, utterly worthless, expendable not once. All because of him and his own mistake.

Narancia relied so much on him. Despite his reluctance to work at times, despite his occasionally... underwhelming results, Fugo knew that Narancia yearned to succeed. To reach that goal, Fugo was supposed to be Narancia's sure leverage – and this... this wasn't the leverage he should've represented.

His disappointment was accompanied by a sorry groan. It was him, it was his fault that all of this work was lead to ruin. He should've known better, he knew there would be rain in the evening – so why leave the window open? Why leave a whole goddamn book on the kitchen counter? None of it made sense, was he truly that dumb? Wasn't he?

Hours of hard work washed away in a single instant. For no other reason than him, and what? A stupid, very human error, that he shouldn't be producing. That costed him so much. That can cost him even more – how was he so inconsiderate?

This could cost him his own life. The lives of others. The fact he was so ignorant. These mistakes – seen and ignored by him – could lead into demise. So much demise.

No. He would not allow it. He would not allow it –

All the indecent tremors, all the disgust they brought along, they were taking over him, wreaking havoc across his flimsy, molested nerves. No longer was Fugo himself.

He was led to stomp and to growl, saliva gathering in his mouth as guttural sounds were spat. Tense fists atop trembling rods of his arms shook as if the wind blew them violently; an external force took over.

His mind was enslaved in a body he could not control. Stuck in a frame so small and fragile, thoughts were assimilating into each other, gushing over his perception and spilling a familiar red over it.

Adrenaline-abused bloodstream pumped with a forceful pulse and he hyperventilated. With wide eyes, his crimson darkness shifted, and he spotted an unwelcome sight. The bile that seeped around him was not his.

Resolve followed immediately. He stepped backwards, screwed his eyes shut, and placed a hand on his throbbing forehead. Pain arrived in thuds, gradating from a low to a high, then devolved. As if nothing happened, clarity was back in his skull, and he found himself gazing clearly at the moonlit surfaces before him.

He'd use this vehemence. With no second thought, he smashed the window back in its place - the glass did not crack, but reverberated as a warning. He grabbed the mush of papers and threw it into the trash. Where it belonged, he thought with bitter sarcasm. Now, what else but to stay up all night and pay the price for the misdeed?

The one rag in his vicinity was used to wipe the water. While switching between wiping and twisting the cloth above the sink, he calculated how much time he'd need to finish everything. He had Math exercises and some "exams" planned in that makeshift book of his, arranged in a manner he still freshly remembered. At the beginning, addition, then subtraction, then... gradually more complex examples, yes, he knew exactly what he prepared for Narancia. Then some questions from History, Geography, Biology... that'd mean, less thinking... making it...

Two to three hours? He was willing to get it done.

Although many people, including Fugo, had witnessed teachers wrongly use their position, Fugo would never allow himself the comfort of being an imperfect authority to Narancia. Minor human flaws were present, they had to be present, but he firmly believed that if he kept this job – and chose to do it – then at least his responsibility would be fulfilled. If he were true to it, then Narancia too would be more considerate. He was a good person after all.

Getting on his knees, Fugo wiped the water that accumulated on the floor as well. There wasn't much of it, luckily, his socks didn't get too wet. The last time he cleaned something on the floor like this, Narancia told him he was like Cinderella, which made Fugo throw the wet rag at him. The memory made the boy chuckle quietly.

With that done, Fugo was unsure what to do with the rag. So he simply went to the bathroom and threw it with the rest of the "dirty" clothes... which were mostly Fugo's, he realized and huffed. He made a mental note to tell Narancia to clean his room for once.

He went back to the living room. He'd left the light on, so he strolled straight to the cupboard where notebooks and pencils and whatnot were kept. Narancia would occasionally lose them (intentionally or not) so Fugo simply had to keep a reasonable stock of material. He took the first notebook on the pile, closed the cupboard and flinched at the thud it made.

The buzzing of the lightbulb above him accompanied his preparations. He took a pen to write with it, following his old logic – what if Narancia erased and changed the exercise? That sly boy. Fugo couldn't help but smile.

He fluttered the notebook open. Papers smelled of stale schoolwork and repugnant memories.

Blind defiance guided his pen to write more and more. Tasks meant for Narancia. Tasks that were imbued with even harsher of a perfectionism. His handwriting began inconsistently, the proportions among letters and numbers were diminishing. He was only three rows in when the tip of his pen ruptured the paper. With an aggravated sigh, he ripped it and threw it somewhere behind him. This was going to be a long night.

Tranquillity was a must. He took a moment to breathe, relax. He let go of the pen, and it landed on the table, threatening to roll off its surface. Fugo quickly positioned it so that it wouldn't. Slouching himself in the chair, he let out yet another loud exhale. Something was off.

His neck was craned in different directions to relieve him of at least a little bit of tension. He swung his head backwards, staring at the light above him through lids almost shut. It wasn't that he was tired, he knew. He just needed to get something to gather his loose focus.

This is why he stood up and dragged himself back to the kitchen. There, he found something they never ran out of – coffee. Narancia didn't drink it, meaning it was under Fugo's meticulous surveillance, and he'd always, always make sure there's enough of it.

He took the nearest cup to him, filled it with water, then motioned himself towards the stove. Wrong move. He blinked to clarify both his vision and his thoughts.

Then he placed the said cup into the microwave and pressed the button multiple times, each tap voicing a boring bleep. The acoustic vibrations of the machine began, and to that monotone tune, Fugo chose to numb himself. He leaned his shoulder against the cold wall, and shivered. The holes in his outfit made sure of it.

He stared ahead into the dim light of the microwave. There had always been something reassuring in solitude, where he relied on himself and his abilities to get the job done. There was nobody to disturb him, which was a pleasant addition.

Some time ago, before his incident, he found these little nightly intervals to be wonderful. When his parents were asleep, when he was on his own, stuck in the dangerous silence with his thoughts and beat-up imagination – those were the times when he'd keep his eyes open, just to stare ahead, be on his own and relish in the escapism.

And sometimes, he'd study in the nighttime as well. Other students would believe that he could read and immediately memorize; this was, surprisingly, mostly true. However, the fact remained that he had to read in order to learn. This would consume time, occasionally reaching the evening, even the night – and studying was something Fugo's parents always approved of.

But no matter the situation, the ever-rare peace was present. He loved it, back then. The present wasn't different at all.

His gaze heavy, he watched the endless rotations of the cup. It was hypnotizing, to say the least. For more than a moment, his brain was blissfully empty, drained of a single coherent line, a single sensible notion. His calm was ushered after the storm – with crossed arms, he vowed to keep it. He allowed his sight to turn black. Ragged was his breathing. What for?

All of a sudden, he was startled. The alarming tones of the microwave informed him that the heating was done. He hurriedly took the cup and finished up the brewing. After debating the decision, he shrugged and added sugar.

The smell soothed him. He gathered this mild delight and brought it to the table with him. Finally, he sat down, took a sip and began.

Writing those tasks, he once again hoped he wouldn't exactly botch Narancia with the criteria. The boy wanted to go back to school after such a long period, so he'd have to work hard to catch up. Fugo had no choice but to introduce him to the material realistically.

His hand was moving automatically at some point. Meaningless reminiscence halted it every now and then, daring him to venture deeper into his school memories. To that, he shook his head, and continued scribbling.

Funnily, almost every question he'd written – for example, to describe Julius Caesar – reflected itself in Fugo's own past, wherein he too once studied about Caesar. A fine line connected the past and the present, so sublime that Fugo was unable to cut it. Excellent memory and an impeccable mind to connect whatnot were a double-edged sword, and Fugo was its victim.

His chin on his hand, he just pretended he ignored the nostalgia. He had never known how to handle these feelings; it was the worst roundabout in his development. There was much he could learn and much he could understand, and yet...

What is the name of the strait that connects Europe and Europe? Did he actually write that? He huffed and corrected the question. There were some things he just couldn't control.

Getting done with Geography, Fugo believed that was all. With the final ounces of his focus, his gaze skimmed over the neatly written pages. Indeed, it was over with. He was on the verge of glee.

To reward himself, he took a sip from his coffee. Once he stared down at the beverage, he noticed something odd. He hadn't finished even a half of it. He was that focused on work. With a hum, he acknowledged that fact, and put down the cup. He closed the notebook with undeniable satisfaction and lastly, stretched. It felt as if the entirety of his spine, his shoulders too, were suddenly relieved.

With the remainder of the night free, he had so much to do – and he only wanted to sleep. Which... he debated if that were possible.

He stood up, cup in his hand, and went to the kitchen to put it into the sink. It clinked against the other dirty dishes. The sight wasn't pleasant, but he was in no state to wash them. That was a problem for a future him.

He sank his face in his hands. Dreary thoughts roamed about his consciousness. He just wanted to sleep. In a sluggish movement, he flipped the switch and let his hand slide down the wall. Having abandoned the darkness, he stepped outside the kitchen and went past the table where the notebook was left. He spared one glance at it, then almost slipped.

Alarmed, he looked down, only to notice he'd stepped on the paper he had thrown. He took it, crumpled and threw it, and at last proceeded to get ready for the bathroom.

He took a very needed shower. This seemed to ease him. Thoughts were clarified, head turned lighter, and body a little more alive. Brushing his teeth afterwards went by in a haze – he didn't even look at himself in the mirror.

And yet, once the humid air of his bedroom raised goosebumps all over his skin, he was sure he wouldn't sleep. He closed the window that too remained open for some reason, then checked if the rain entered the room. Fortunately, only a couple of droplets were there. So he freely threw himself onto the cushion, dangled himself in the white, thin sheets. What mattered was that he had his socks on.

He was burrowed in that sole yearning to sleep. Foreign influences prevented it, however – the reminiscence that was long tumbling in his brain, the newfound tension across his body; low huffs of his overworked head would not settle anytime soon. Only time would tell.

Time, indeed, passed, and changes did occur. Discomfort was creeping up to him. He turned in the bed, changing his poses, uncovering himself, even moving the pillow. The night was slowly getting wasted. Annoyance arose in Fugo.

If he could only beat the troublesome feeling inside his chest, everything would've been fine. But he could not get rid of it – it was caving in on his mood, his mind, painting his whole cognizance a shade darker. Yet somehow, once he reopened his eyes, the night seemed lighter.

He shifted himself and groaned into the pillow. Why? Why couldn't he sleep?

This was such a rare thing to happen. He never had problems falling asleep, but now... now he was swallowed by the nuisance. He was completely and utterly at its disposal.

Uncertainties like this unsettled him deeply. He was unsure what to do next – how to will himself to sleep, how to get back to his senses? He felt lost. It was never a physiological trait for him. No geographical pointer could establish it, no unit could determine it.

It was a state he couldn't assert through introspective. Not due to the inaccuracy of the method, but naturally, due to the very simple fact that he was not aware of his disposition. No recognition of it meant no problem as well, but its effects could be seen all over his life. Fundamental they were to his existence, something so deeply intertwined with his soul that he knew of no condition other than the one he'd been in, and hadn't been found in.

But he was aware of it. Caught this odd sensation of void in his chest. Was the gaping hole a wound?

He stretched his neck once again, and positioned himself a bit unnaturally in the bed. He shouldn't have allowed himself to stay up this late. Much like any ordinary man, his thoughts were prone to spiraling downwards, rather than being uplifting. But he dealt with them well, the same way he'd be capable of controlling his rage from time to time. He had so much knowledge to debate with those sensible matters, after all.

Like... when he took interest in Nietzschean abolishments and praises to free will. Amor fati, the love of fate as Nietzsche called it, was one of the terms he'd learned to recognize. There was a sort of optimism to that nihilism, for it dictated that fate must be accepted and life, as a whole, grasped – without rejecting any of it, while keeping a will to live. It was a simple concept, and a stray one.

Sometimes he'd run to such concepts, sometimes he'd reject them. It was a habit of his imprisoned self, a form of intellectual getaway. During exams or quizzes, he spilled this knowledge with either hatred or love. This depended solely on his mood.

His current mood, however... it wasn't exactly the best, but he recognized its fallacy and sought to lull it. He had to sleep. He didn't want to be grumpy tomorrow. But how to reach that? His eyes were wide open, mind coherent; caffeine still had some effect, albeit faint. Probably. Perhaps the shower woke him up. It shouldn't have been so cold.

Something caught his attention. There were drops on the chair by the bed. He spread his arm to reach them, and was guided by the late night's Moon. The contrast was of the light uncanny, the whim too, and yet he had it done.

One hand to feel the cold water. Swat it away, watch it disperse in soggy details. These little beauties were once invisible to him. He never got the opportunity to experience life and enjoy it rightfully, although he'd studied many aspects of it. But every now and then, he'd be rewarded. Living on the streets had given him enough time to both observe and think, and among poverty and injustice, he found so many things to look forward to.

The chirping of some bird? A mother helping her child? Small enjoyments that were not his, and yet, fulfilled him. Kicked him to yet another bright day, split yet another night.

Likewise, an intellect as fine as his could fixate at the most usual of scenes. It was the oddities of the everyday that would sometimes spark the warmest of feelings inside of him. Just like now, this moment, wherein the chill under his fingertips cooled his nerves. His nostrils full of crisp, moist air. His eyes exhausted, healing with the soft darkness. He was at peace.

An agonizing sound ruined it all. He groaned, surprise striking his heart and shaking his fatigued frame. One of the neighbors did something, whatever, probably moved their furniture at this hour – why would they do that? Why would anyone move their furniture at... Fugo looked at his watch. At 5 AM.

His heartbeat sprung to a new high and he growled at the rude, absolutely nonsensical behavior. He shot an spiteful gaze towards the ceiling. That was all. He wasn't capable of anything else.

His eyes were closed, his fingers clenched around the pale sheets. Again, that anger, that unbelievable anger... his damnation and salvation. There was no room in the world for problems like his. Nobody would understand, and not even he would approve.

Then would he ever be satisfied with filling the niche? He knew that the given state of affairs wasn't ideal. And yet, to become a scholar and work on the other side of the coin, the equally dirty flipside, whose only difference was that in the layout of incisions? He didn't deserve much of a change, and he never truly cared. He acknowledged one fact after another, knowing that the "what-ifs" in his past weren't much better.

But the apparent waste of abilities he possessed was somewhat of a disappointment. He could've helped shape the world, although he never had the ambition to. He just... felt it was a shame, sometimes.

He could've been the next Einstein, and his parents were keen on making him one, by forcing him down the path exact opposite to that of Einstein's. That's what he realized once, and now, out of all times, remembered?

"I have no special talents. I am only passionately curious," Mista read out loud. "That's what Einstein said."

He eyed everyone present at the table, only to be met with little to no interest. "Okay, easy for him to say, that dude was insanely intelligent," he added. Narancia's chuckle was heard.

"It was proven that his brain aged slower than that of a normal human. That's the key to his brilliance," Fugo pointed out, not batting an eye.

"Only his brain?"

"Yeah."

Mista raised a brow. "How can one body part age slower than the others?"

"Neurons have different repairing mechanisms when compared to other cells."

"Hm. That would make sense." Satisfied with Fugo's response, Mista continued reading his book. In the meantime, Fugo's own mind worked in a frame very different to that of Mista's. He thought of death.

So, you see potential? The intelligence should be exploited, no? Train it, then, you would think. Push the child to garner knowledge, and it will break one way or another. That's something Fugo's parents failed to comprehend.

It was a mistake? It was. But they killed the child.

As Fugo already knew, making it an addition to Einstein's statement, knowledge can be sustained by all. What wasn't often the case, however, was using and applying that knowledge, and primarily, understanding it. Fugo had no problem with that.

He trusted his head to maintain sanity and sensible notions. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he maintained a solid mindset, and that his mental abilities were high. They were of some use after all. The fact he mattered... it was nice.

What Fugo had a problem with, was, however... what?

He reopened his eye. That chair.

Why was it even there?

He never sat on it. Who sat on it?

Such a waste.

All the knowledge that wouldn't be used. All the abilities that were thrown away. All the chairs without their Thinkers to arch their aching spines, and merely sit and ponder – and all the chairs without children to rest on them.

Fugo once more spread his hand towards that solitary decoration in his room. Why did he even keep it there, if he never used it...? Wonderment reserved for gentler souls. And his hand turned lax, he let it hang from the bedside. The last he'd seen before falling asleep was that stupid chair.