[Fugo doesn't go anywhere. He doesn't pull away, or freeze up. He listens quietly and tries to keep his breathing even and steady-- something he's only somewhat successful at. There are moments when it gets caught up in his lungs, held tight until he lets it go in long, jagged exhales. But, most importantly, he doesn't let go of Giorno's hand. His fingers curl tight, then loose, then tight again. The point of contact between their palms feels like the unspoken start of the conversation: a point of reassurance that doesn't need words to communicate the idea you are not alone.
He wanted to understand. And he does now, in the same way he would understand if Giorno had rolled up his sleeve and showed him a scar and laid it next to his own scarred arms. Except this isn't the sort of wound that leaves behind a mark on the skin. These scars are only visible when someone who knows what to look for looks sideways at a too-clean bedroom or a cupboard full of pudding cups. Their scars aren't the same, but they're uncannily similar-- because they were left behind by the same sort of indifferently cruel people, who thought first about themselves and what they wanted and only occasionally, if ever, about the children left in their care.
Giorno has the same sort of gaps in his knowledge as Fugo does for the concept of a mother's love, which is a common trope in literature that, even now, he just can't bring himself to understand.]
I've been thinking about it for a long while now. [About when and where Giorno might have eaten yakitori. About why he would have told him about it when all he needed for his metaphor was just to say "I don't like chicken". And, more recently, about how yakitori and purin are related. About the sharp, precise way Italian sometimes comes from Giorno's mouth, when he isn't feeling like himself.] People like her are despicable.
[People who would leave their children alone for days on end without anything to eat. People who would give their children away to someone who would just use them in exchange for their comfortable lifestyle. It's tiring to think about and his voice reflects it, but there's a sharp spike of anger directed towards a woman that, if she's lucky, he will never meet.]
I'll help you put it away. Your pudding. But if you'd like-- [While he speaks, the thought occurs to him that he finds his inability to hold Giorno frustrating. So he reaches with his outer arm for their clasped hands, making sure that there isn't a moment when Giorno is holding one of his hands before he shifts his position to put his arm around Giorno's shoulders.] You can keep some in here too. If I end up needing the drawer, I'll just find somewhere else to put it.
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He wanted to understand. And he does now, in the same way he would understand if Giorno had rolled up his sleeve and showed him a scar and laid it next to his own scarred arms. Except this isn't the sort of wound that leaves behind a mark on the skin. These scars are only visible when someone who knows what to look for looks sideways at a too-clean bedroom or a cupboard full of pudding cups. Their scars aren't the same, but they're uncannily similar-- because they were left behind by the same sort of indifferently cruel people, who thought first about themselves and what they wanted and only occasionally, if ever, about the children left in their care.
Giorno has the same sort of gaps in his knowledge as Fugo does for the concept of a mother's love, which is a common trope in literature that, even now, he just can't bring himself to understand.]
I've been thinking about it for a long while now. [About when and where Giorno might have eaten yakitori. About why he would have told him about it when all he needed for his metaphor was just to say "I don't like chicken". And, more recently, about how yakitori and purin are related. About the sharp, precise way Italian sometimes comes from Giorno's mouth, when he isn't feeling like himself.] People like her are despicable.
[People who would leave their children alone for days on end without anything to eat. People who would give their children away to someone who would just use them in exchange for their comfortable lifestyle. It's tiring to think about and his voice reflects it, but there's a sharp spike of anger directed towards a woman that, if she's lucky, he will never meet.]
I'll help you put it away. Your pudding. But if you'd like-- [While he speaks, the thought occurs to him that he finds his inability to hold Giorno frustrating. So he reaches with his outer arm for their clasped hands, making sure that there isn't a moment when Giorno is holding one of his hands before he shifts his position to put his arm around Giorno's shoulders.] You can keep some in here too. If I end up needing the drawer, I'll just find somewhere else to put it.