That's what this is about? [Oh. His chest kind of hurts. Because it seems like the smart thing to do, Fugo lets go of the breath he held a little too long with a sharp exhale. He rests a hand over his chest and rubs the approximate location of where is pounding heart is, in the vague hopes that will get it to stop beating so fast.] Of course I did, it's--
[He gestures vaguely, flicking his wrist and hand towards his desk.] It was getting everywhere, so I put it away.
[His smile is many things: bright, relieved, delighted, guileless. He pats Fugo on the cheek and then darts across the room to the desk, tugging the drawers open until he finds the right one. With a murmur of victory, he pulls a cup out and holds it close to his chest for just a second or two before seeming to realize what he's doing and drawing back to rest it on the desk.]
Sorry they took up so much space . . .
[Hm. He frowns a little and perches on the edge of the desk, heels swinging in midair. Then he peels the foil off the top of the cup and starts methodically removing the excess pudding from it with his fingertip.]
And all of it. I don't know why that started all of a sudden.
[Between the cheek patting and Giorno's effervescent smile, Fugo feels the tips of his ears go pink. He distracts himself from feeling embarrassed by kneeling down to pick up his books while Giorno rummages around in his desk. By the time he's on his feet again, carefully balancing a stack of reference books on his forearms, it's just in time to catch Giorno triumphantly holding his pudding close.
There's always a lot to watch with Giorno, but this is-- well, it's a little pulse of strangeness that's hard for Fugo to keep his finger on. An equation with too many unknown variables, so the values he does know don't balance out yet. He knows that Giorno likes pudding; enough that he'll make trips to the grocery and stash it away in a special cabinet that houses nothing but pudding. More than that, pudding is ... important to Giorno. He was upset that it was all gone, worried that Fugo might have thrown it away, and then delighted to find it safe. He's eating it without a spoon for now, which is. Admittedly a little gross. But also very thorough and particular of him, in a very Giorno sort of way.]
It's fine. I don't mind. [Fugo briefly turns back to his bookshelf, sliding the books into their new proper places.] I've been meaning to reorganize my desk anyway. If you like, we can move it back tonight.
[Once the books are back in place, Fugo pauses and allows his fingers to nervously tap, tap, tap out a rhythm on the shelf. The act of putting things back in order has helped him calm down, but he's still feeling more than a little nervy.]
Do you think... [He trails off, not sure how to broach his thoughts.] It reminds me, a little, of when I brought you pudding.
[Except Gold Experience hasn't been satisfied with just one cup. Over time, it's piled up quite a bit.]
[A moment's soft upswelling of panic, but he steps on it and squashes it as quickly as he can. His smile is a little more brittle now, but quite controlled, as he folds the now-clean foil lid into fourths.]
I can take it back myself. Just get it out of your way now. No need to wait.
[Really he just wants it back in his room where it belongs. It's not that he's worried about Fugo being upset, or at least not mostly. He's just . . . worried. Nebulously.]
[And then a bit more so. His brows draw together uncertainly.]
When you . . . ? When I was--
[It would probably help if he finished his thought, and yet.]
Oh, if that's-- [Fugo moves as if he wants to gesture, before thinking twice of it and rubs his knuckles nervously instead.] It's all in that drawer and there's nothing else in it. So you can just take that, if you'd like.
[That would be easier, he thinks, then taking it all out armful by armful back to Giorno's room. He shifts in place, restless and unsure and growing a little more worried as the conversation unfolds, before further clarifying.]
When you weren't feeling well. [He quickly adds:] But it was just a thought. I have a lot of those. Probably too many.
[Mmph. He needs to . . . not be so nervous, he thinks. It's just Fugo, isn't it? Not anyone bad. Fugo took care of him when he was weak and pathetic. So it's fine, it's totally fine. Talking about it is fine. Thinking about it is also fine.]
[This is fine.]
[He chews his lip, twisting the foil between his fingers.]
It's okay, I--I just didn't understand how it's, um. How it's the same as--when that happened.
[Giorno says it's okay and, even though he's sensitive enough to Giorno's mood that he can tell that something isn't right, just hearing it helps Fugo let go of some of his anxiety that what was wrong was something he did or said. It helps him unstick his feet from the floor, frozen in place in front of his bookshelf and move instead closer to the desk.]
It's not that it was the same, just... [He stands in front of his desk chair and drums his fingers on the top of it.] It reminded me of it, because he was there. [His eyes dart down to his fingers, before looking uncertainly up at Giorno.]
Do you-- want to talk about it? [A brief, sheepish smile twitches across his face.] We don't have to. But if you do, you might want to move. That desk's made for utility first.
[So it can't be comfortable to sit on, especially for long periods of time.]
[Because he was there. That's true, and the truth of it makes Giorno wince a little all the same. But if anyone's to understand that part of it, it's Fugo; that much he knows for sure. They're the same, aren't they, the two of them, the two sides of the same coin, only he fakes it better than Fugo does. Confidence. Love for himself. He fakes it right up until he can't at all.]
I don't want to, but . . .
[He wrinkles up his nose a little, managing a smile, even if it's a little wry, a little bitter.]
Do you ever want someone to know something, but you don't want to have to explain it? It's like that.
[Sighing, he looks down at Fugo's hands. His long fingers, playing across the top of the chair like he's expecting music to come out of it. He wants to take Fugo's hand in his, but right now, he doesn't feel like he's worthy of it.]
Tell me where you want me to be? Please. And we can talk about it, if you want to.
[There's a too-familiar pain in the raw, sharp corners of Giorno's smile. Fugo watches Giorno's expression carefully (and a little anxiously, because Fugo always worries) and finds a sense of bitter humor there, but nothing happy. What he doesn't know about pudding is something difficult and painful for Giorno; not easy to discuss. Something private.]
I want to understand. [He doesn't look away from Giorno's face for a long moment, his own expression soft and open. When he does, it's just to look around his room; a dimple appears in his cheek from where he bites the inside of his mouth while he considers their options.
Fugo's room is mostly empty; it could belong to anyone, or no one at all. The walls are the same color they were when he arrived and there's no new furniture. He doesn't have many things-- at least, not many possessions he leaves lying around in plain sight. He has no knick-knacks, no photographs, no little toys or items of interest. The face of his desk is clean and empty, notes and sheet music filed away in its drawers, save for a jar of pens and pencils positioned neatly in one corner. His clothes are all folded in his bureau or hanging in his closet. There's not a speck of dust to be found anywhere, or fingerprints on the glass of his windows. His bed is pristinely and precisely made, without a single wrinkle on the dark bedspread. It's his room, but he lives in it like a guest.]
We can sit at the table or on the bed. Whatever is more comfortable for you.
[He turns back to Giorno and, although it's not necessary for such a little jump from the desk to the floor, offers him his hand. He pauses, before asking:]
Would you like me to close the door while we talk?
[Fugo does not close his bedroom door-- at least when he's in it. It's always closed when in other parts of the house and always standing ajar when he's inside, whether he's reading, working, or trying to get some sleep. Sheila E once asked him if he was claustrophobic. Personally, Fugo thinks that word is too strong: even if he gets anxious in closed up spaces, it's really just a preference. A tactic. One of the little ways he tries to protect himself against Purple Haze that's too awkward to explain to others. Better safe than sorry.]
[This is one of those moments when Fugo doesn't seem real. It's not a new feeling, not by a long shot. It's not just reserved for Fugo, either. Anyone who's kind to him, really, makes him feel this at one time or another, or many times: the sense of looking at someone and knowing they're there while at the same time knowing, in his heart of hearts, that they're impossible.]
[His breath stops, just for a moment. I'll be good, he reminds himself--doesn't mean to, but does, and takes Fugo's offered hand in his very close to desperately. It will be all right, he knows, if he's good. Or if he's not. Fugo is safe. So he needs to stop being so stupid.]
You . . . yes. But don't let go.
[His voice is soft, eyes downcast as he hops off the desk and comes to stand just at Fugo's side, close but not touching except where their fingers twine together.]
[Will it ever stop surprising him how tightly Giorno holds onto him? Fugo is briefly caught off-guard, thoughts trailing behind his heart; before he even thinks about it, his fingers lock in place next to Giorno's. Fugo looks down at their hands and blinks, almost puzzled by the gesture. When had he stopped hesitating? When had holding hands gone from being a good thing to the right thing? Ah, but. Now's not the time to worry about that. He can think about it later.]
I won't. I promise. [Fugo looks back up at Giorno's face and squeezes his hand, earnest and serious.] I've got you, Giogio.
[And he doesn't let go. Not when he crosses the room and closes the doors to his bedroom; first the one that opens to the main hall, then the second that leads to the little foyer between his room, the room that should have been Mista's, and Giorno's suite. And certainly not when he climbs into the bed, pulling Giorno together with him to sit with their backs against the headboard.]
[About halfway through this procedure, as he sticks close to Fugo, tight against his side as doors close, he realizes he's left the opened pudding cup on the desk. This is distressing, but not as much as he expected it might be. There's a joke in there somewhere, probably: he doesn't need that pudding when he's got this one. He doesn't make it, or even feel the impulse to. He doesn't want to take the chance that Fugo might let him go.]
[He'd follow Fugo off the end of the earth like this. He's curled in on himself, preparing to hurt, a look that's rare on him now but not unknown. This is the look he wore under the onslaught of Abbacchio's tirade, when Jonathan and Jotaro were so close to coming to blows. He curls up against Fugo like Gold Experience did not so long ago, making himself small somehow despite the fact that they're about the same size, really.]
Sorry I'm being strange.
[It's muffled against Fugo's shoulder; then he turns his face out to the room again and nudges Fugo's leg with his knee.]
I don't want to start. Maybe if you ask me something, it'll all . . . unfold. Like--a very gentle interrogation.
[Fugo has a difficult time thinking of Giorno as small. That term only works as a descriptor in comparison to the giants they happen to living with. After all, they're nearly the same height; even more than that, these days, Giorno's presence fills up the room the same way the sun dominates the sky. It's difficult to ignore him even when he isn't deliberately positioning himself in the center of everything-- and downright impossible when he is.
Fugo's growing used to the way Giorno folds into himself, sometimes, taking up as little space as he can with his shoulders drawn and elbows close to his sides. Giorno calls it being strange. But it's not strange to Fugo at all: it's the way Fugo used to hold himself in front of his professors and his classmates and his grandfather, because--]
[Because it had felt better. Because if he could make himself small enough, maybe they would stop looking at him.]
It's okay. [Fugo brushes his thumb on the side of Giorno's hand, back and forth. He allows himself to settle around Giorno, steadily holding up his slender weight with his shoulder. In his mind's eye, he sketches out his unfinished equation: what he knows, what he can guess at, and things that he doesn't know at all. He thinks and he considers and, in the end, he selects a starting point with an item that he believes very strongly to be related.]
When we had lunch in October, the cook brought you a plate of chicken and potatoes. [He remembers, very clearly, the frustrated set of Giorno's mouth and the stubborn way he went about eating something he didn't care for.] You told me that you didn't care for chicken, because all your mother used to cook in the evenings was a dish called yakitori.
[Japanese food. Cooked on skewers. Meant to be served with bear. You impale the meat on sharp little sticks, Giorno had said, eyes flinty. The word he had used to describe his memories of those meals was "painful".]
[Fugo is . . . technically not holding him. Technically not. But the way they're sitting, the way they're close, the way Fugo curls around him as if to physically block the rest of the world from getting to him--in its way, that's the same thing. It's hard to remember now when he came to believe that Fugo would be there to provide that for him. It can't have been that long ago, but he believes it with his whole heart now.]
[He believes what Fugo's telling him, too. Even if it wasn't Fugo saying it--he laughs, and it's more bitter and self-deprecating than he means it to be, but he'd know regardless, wouldn't he. That sounds like him.]
I wanted you to know. I wanted you to figure it out so I didn't have to tell you. I wanted you to . . . I wanted someone to know, but especially you. And I didn't . . .
[His fingers clench tight in Fugo's shirtfront, just for a moment.]
When I left. I hadn't told anyone, not yet. Maybe by then I'd told Mista, but it's not like here, it's not like everyone knows at home. Because it's a weakness. It isn't safe for people to know some things. It's--
[And now he's rambling. He just wants to curl up and go to sleep for a while and wake up to Fugo knowing. But he wants Fugo to know more than he wants to run away.]
[He would tell Fugo something clever and thoughtful if it was him worrying. That everything would be all right, that it was okay to be honest. He can hear Fugo's heartbeat through the layers of clothing, his pulse beating through his skin, and feel it, too, in his fingertips and his own heart. He can always feel it. It's . . . grounding in its undeniability. Fugo's heart is beating. So is his own. It's safe.]
[He breathes out, slow and steady.]
She made it sometimes. It was the only thing she made, but she only made it sometimes. The rest of the time she just . . . didn't make anything. She went away.
[What is he afraid of? Think about it. What could hit him now that's worse than what he's already known? He will never be alone again. He's promised himself this; he's made it so. And even without trying, it's staying that way. People care for him, people stay with him. Fugo isn't going to leave.]
For . . . days sometimes. I don't know where. Somewhere else. And I . . .
[His voice is so soft and small, words short and clipped and different-sounding somehow, the edges rounded in a way that is not Italian. Something else.]
When I could get into the cupboard--when I was able to. There was pudding sometimes. It didn't go bad, so . . .
[So. He falls silent, breathing one-two-three in and one-two-three out. This close, he can see the individual threads on Fugo's shirt. He squeezes Fugo's hand. Don't go.]
[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.
[The feeling is remarkable, impossible, unique: a sudden, near-painful sunburst of relief in his chest, startling and brilliant. He can feel shards of frozen light stuck to the inside of his ribcage, hammering along with his heart.]
[There's no way he could possibly articulate what this means to him, all of this. He's a remarkably well-spoken person for his age, but this--this topic always leaves him monosyllabic and frightened of his own tongue, and Fugo's response leaves him breathless, dizzy with the need for it to be true. All of it--the startle, the anger, the comfort--he needs all of that. He's so needy, he knows, he should need less, but he can't make it so. And here Fugo is, giving it all to him without even being asked.]
How are you--
[How are you so perfect, is what he's going to ask, but he can't. He knows if he does it'll be one of those things, and he's not himself enough to navigate that. So he bites down hard on his bottom lip as Fugo wraps his arm around his shoulder (always touching, always, never leaving, constant) and gets closer the only way he knows how: tucks his head under Fugo's chin and presses his face to his shirt, toes curling inside his socks, eyes squeezed tight shut.]
I know . . . I know why he said that, even though I hadn't thought of it yet. To say that. Isn't it strange? I know why he did everything that he did, because even though I hadn't done it yet, it's still me. I know he wanted so much for someone to know and knew that you would figure it out and he wouldn't feel so alone anymore.
[It comes out rushed and breathy, a torrent of words, quick but not desperate. He feels so safe that it feels impossible, so small that he feels like someone else. Like Haruno, maybe, if Haruno had been luckier.]
Did you . . . I--I want.
[Everything, yes, he would like to live in Fugo's drawer himself, actually, shrink himself up small and live in his pocket, run fingers through his hair every second of every day, fall asleep here and wake up still sleepy and safe enough that he dozes off again. He squeezes Fugo's fingers again without meaning to.]
. . . Ti voglio bene. I'd like that. Did you--did you figure out the rest of it? The other . . .
[Purin. Yakitori. Can Giorno let that go, too? Can he let it breathe in the space between them?]
[For an instant, he's struck by-- not a complete memory. It was so long ago and he had been so small, so it's all in bits and pieces. He remembers the smell of something sweet. He remembers his chest being so tight and hot with tears he couldn't let go of that breathing felt like choking. And he remembers a hand on his back, slowly coaxing all the sadness out of him in slow, easy circles. In the present his own fingers trace that nearly-forgotten movement, looking for places in Giorno's neck and shoulders where grief has pulled his muscles into knots. It just seems like the right thing to do.
Fugo twists his head and makes a soft negative sound, mm-mm, and rests his chin on top of Giorno's head. He closes his eyes and listens to Giorno breathe; feels it as it pulls in and out underneath his arms like a tide.]
It isn't strange. He's still you. And isn't that what you wanted? [He opens his eyes, eyes drifting towards the opened, uneaten cup of pudding on his desk.] For me to know without you having to explain it.
[He falls quiet again. Turns over the words, ti voglio bene, and how precious they are to him. About Giorno's question, which he's been puzzling over for months on his own because the solution was so obvious but too personal to confirm in question. The second part is tricky, but easier than the first.]
Before she brought you to live in Napoli, you ate yakitori and-- [Here, he shapes the word carefully in his mouth. There's a particular consonant he needs to watch: something between r and l that doesn't exist in Italian or English or French. A unique sound from a language spoken far across the sea.] purin in Japan.
[He bites his lip, swallows, and tightens his grip on Giorno's hand. He can't say it, yet. Can't give shape to the enormous, frightening mess of emotion he feels towards Giorno, even though it's becoming more and more obvious what he feels. He can only hope that Giorno can understand what he means without words. Because reaching out and meeting each other halfway... if that's not what it means to love someone, what is?]
[This time his relief is audible: a long, sharp sigh petering out between his lips as his whole body relaxes. Fugo rubs circles on his back, his shoulders, and it feels so foreign but so familiar at the same time. He slumps for a moment, his breathing slowing. He could fall asleep like this. That's so strange--that after talking about this, this thing he hates about himself most of all, but because it's with Fugo, because it's like this, somehow it doesn't hurt so much.]
Haruno.
[It drifts out delicate between breaths. His eyes slip open, looking at nothing much. Had he meant to say that? It's hard to know. He's so . . . not happy. But not entirely sad, either.]
That was my name. Once. I didn't know . . . why no one would say it anymore, after we moved. I didn't know who "Giorno" was. Or what all the new words were . . .
[He rubs his cheek against Fugo's shoulder, humming under his breath.]
Can't tell too many people, hm? Have to be Italian, to get what I want. And I want . . . everything. So I'm . . . an invader. Hiding in plain sight.
[That's part of it, too, isn't it? Hiding in plain sight. Sleight of hand. Feeling too much and hiding most of it. Fugo knows all about that, of course he does. Not wanting to be alone, not trusting. Not wanting to get close, either.]
[But they're close now, he thinks. Lifting his head, he gives Fugo a lazy smile. So relaxed and so grateful. It's a painfully honest expression, especially on him, and he doesn't bother to hide his affection. There's so much of it, he probably couldn't anyway.]
I wanted you to know. But more than that--really, I just wanted you. I think that means I'm terribly clever in the future, wanting someone so wonderful.
Haruno. [Fugo repeats the name after Giorno says it, sounding it out and trying the shape of it in his mouth. It is and isn't Giorno's name anymore, Haruno is who Giorno was not who he is. But Giorno is still Haruno, in the way that he's still Panni. With time, it becomes easier to bury these past selves; to cover them with the dirt and detritus collected from the act of just being alive. But they're not really dead and never quite gone. Sometimes they come out of their graves.
Something about the way Giorno describes himself sticks with him. An invader, hiding in plain sight. Giorno doesn't leave him much time to think about it, so he tucks the thought away for another day because now he has to deal with the problem of Giorno saying nice things to him. When they're this close and both of his hands are occupied, there's no way to hide the way his face is heating up or his crooked little smile when he looks down to meet Giorno's eyes. His recourse is to turn his face away and that's not an option he's willing to take right now. Any other day he might kick up a fuss at the sudden compliment or pull away out of embarassment, but today-- well, he'll just let it slide.]
You're terribly clever all the time, Giogio. It's sort of a problem for me, since I want to keep up with you. Is there anything you can't figure out? [Italian. Taking over Napoli's most powerful crime family and transforming it in half a year to the most powerful crime family in all of Italy. There's humor in Fugo's eyes, fondness sketched in the corners of his mouth.] ... I think I understand a little better the things you must have been thinking about back then.
[His understanding isn't complete. Not yet. But he's one very important step closer.]
[Normally--on every other occasion since he was very young indeed--he's balked at the thought of being called Haruno. It's made him cringe, a little nauseous, his anxiety palpable as an oncoming thunderstorm. But somehow it's not as bad when Fugo says it. Still not entirely good, but . . . he feels seen in a way that's comforting rather than overwhelming, as though someone is looking under his skin to his bones and marrow, but only in a very gentle way.]
[He'll have to think about this. Part of him wants very much to give it away--to give Fugo that name, if he wants it, to do with what he will. But it's better to be cautious. They're already teetering towards feeling-too-much, and as nice as that can be, he likes this too. This . . . pleasant stasis.]
[Fugo is so lovely when he's smiling, when he's relaxed. Giorno wants so much to say so. But he doesn't.]
It sounds good, the way you say it.
[That instead, soft and thoughtful and pensive. It's clear that it's something unusual, something he finds curious. Something he wants to dig later-but not til later. Right now he wants to know something else.]
Could you tell me? I want to know what you think. I just wonder if it's the same, you know? As what I think. Because I think sometimes, in some ways, you're cleverer than I am.
[If that name sounds good when Fugo says it, the inverse of that statement is that it sounds bad when others do. The latter isn't strange. No one likes to be reminded of painful things. What doesn't make sense is why it ... sounds good, coming from him. That's another thing Fugo has to set aside, because if he thinks too much about it he knows he'll get flustered.
He'll think about Giorno's question instead. Take a moment to put his thoughts in order, because if he starts at the end everything will get muddled.]
I don't think I understand all of it. [His hand continues to rub slow, comforting circles into Giorno's shoulder. He hasn't objected yet, or tried to move away. And the motion helps Fugo, who hates to be still, stay grounded.] But I can tell you what I think I've put together.
[Fugo tips his head and leans back-- although not away; he pulls Giorno back with him-- on the headboard.]
I think it had to have started with tactics. Rationally speaking, I was a threat to your platform that you were the secret Boss of Passione who lived in hiding until the present because of your youth. [The story itself was romantic; it appealed to the hearts of the civilians who heard it and the members of Passione Giorno wanted to keep around. Traitors in the gang who tried to uncover his identity and usurp his position. An innocent girl being dragged into what could have become a war that would have torn the organization apart from the inside out.] Because I knew the truth about what happened. If the wrong people found me before you did and I told them the truth, it would have weakened your position. Because you couldn't let that happen, you had to find me.
I believe you eventually came to the conclusion that it was too dangerous to have my assassinated and, if you could ensure my loyalty, I was more useful to you alive than dead. [Fugo recites the following facts almost as if he's talking about a different person, not himself. He boils himself down to a simple, bulleted list of useful traits.] I can't control him well, but Purple Haze is a formidable Stand. I'm intelligent. I'm experienced in your organization.
[He frowns. But that's not it. If that were all, Giorno never would have reached out to him the way he did. After he proved his loyalty, Giorno would have just sent him to work with another assassination team. He never would have brought him home.]
I'm not sure what came first. Did you investigate my background, or find where I was hiding in Milan? [He resists the urge to pick at Giorno's shirt, searching for a loose thread that doesn't exist. Instead, he briefly tightens his grip on Giorno's hand.] I suppose it doesn't really matter. Regardless of when it happened, I'm certain you must have met with, or at least had someone talk to-- [He swallows and takes a moment to remind himself that he doesn't have to forgive them. Those people aren't his family. Not in the eyes of the law and not in the eyes of anyone who really matters. That word isn't accurate. He is under no obligation to use it.] ... my relatives.
[He falls quiet again, trying to gather his thoughts in order. It still doesn't make sense to him. Giorno's mental jump from "threat" to "friend". What really changed Giorno's mind? What was the driving motivation behind his decision to not just bring Fugo back into the fold and under his control, but welcome him home with open arms into his closest circle? There's a gap between points that he's had to skip over every time he thinks about it, because he just can't understand.]
Do you remember what Narancia said? Back in Venice. [He closes his eyes, thinking back to that awful, awful afternoon. The memory comes back to him, as crystal clear as ever: Trish's blood in the river, Narancia's stricken expression, the frantic way he threw himself off the dock and into the water.] ... I can't understand the rest of it, but I think you must have felt something similar after seeing what sort of house my grandfather kept. That was a part of why you wanted to bring me home, rather than just ensure I wasn't a threat to you.
[Giorno had known about what he had done to his professor. Giorno had cut through to the heart of what it was that made him so angry. Giorno understood that part of him, because he carried the same sort of wounds with him.]
[He realizes this in a haze as Fugo leans back, pulling him along. They've never talked about this--not about what they've lost or how they managed to meet up again, then and here. There was a moment, that first day, when they glossed over it briefly. But it wasn't like this. Not like this, not in enough depth to cause pain to spark in his expression at the mention of Narancia's name. Your fault, your fault, something hisses in the back of his mind, and in truth he can't find a way to make that not seem true.]
[At least he's able to draw some comfort from the movement, the way that Fugo keeps him close and doesn't pull away, even when they're talking about horribly upsetting things. He follows Fugo back with perhaps too much alacrity, tightening his grip on Fugo's fingers and curling up against his chest like he wants to crawl inside it. He sort of does. It might be easier that way.]
[This isn't bad, though. Just difficult. Plenty of good things, valuable things, are difficult. So he breathes steadily, deliberately, closes his eyes for a moment, and opens them again to look at Fugo with a smile that's fragile, but very much real.]
You have most of it. I told you, you're very clever. There are two things you're missing, though. The one is that killing you was never anything but a last resort. I couldn't--
[His eyes dart sideways as he arches his shoulders a little against the movements of Fugo's hand. He wants to say don't stop doing that, but he's also pretty sure that if he gets off-topic he'll never get back on it. So he just bites his lip and presses on, thumb sliding against the side of Fugo's hand.]
It would be an insult to them to have you killed unless I absolutely had to. To all of them, but Bruno especially. And he--after all of that, after April, I knew I had to live to honor him, or what was it all for? So I never wanted to kill you.
And the other thing . . .
[Now he manages to look back at Fugo, not because it's easy but because it's necessary. He's visibly struggling, still smiling but struggling, but he's got to, because honesty is transmitted from eye to eye, and even if his truths aren't nice, they must be true.]
I hurt so much, Fugo. Then and now. I know, I know that when I went to get you in that restaurant I was still hurting. When I was planning all of this, I was hurting so much I thought I'd die. But I wasn't alone. You were. You were hurting as much as I was or more, you'd known them all so much longer, and you were all by yourself without your family. That wasn't right.
And after I found out--
[His breath hitches again; he pushes through, a stubborn line forming behind his brow. He feels a bit like he's begging Fugo to understand, but it's not shameful. It just is. It's honest.]
I do remember that. I did that, before I came here. I found clippings, and I knew--something about them, I just knew. I hadn't put it all together yet, but something about it wasn't right. You needed people who loved you. You needed us. We needed you. I couldn't have left you alone. I wanted you to be loved, I wanted you to be--close enough that we could love you. That was the right thing to do. And the thing that I wanted to do. You . . .
[He gives Fugo another smile, lopsided and wobbly this time.]
[They're so close. He's never been this close with someone before. Giorno is pressed against his chest and underneath his chest with a weight that's heavy, but not uncomfortable. He's never been this open with someone before either. He feels caught up in a thicket of grief that's not wholly his own: Giorno's caught here too, reaching for him through the thorns so neither of them have to fight their way out on their own.
His fingers falter, just for a moment, when Giorno looks up to smile at him. He's caught off-guard by how warm it is, even through Giorno's unhappiness. But it's not a long-lived moment: as soon as he feels the light brush of Giorno's thumb on his hand, his hand picks up the movement again.]
[The first part is easier to accept. It's logical, in its own way: because he cared for and respected Bruno, he didn't want to kill someone who was a part of his team. Even if that person was a traitor. Even if that person was a threat to him. It flies in the face of logic and common sense, but it's very--
It's very like Giorno, now that he knows him a little better. So that makes sense to Fugo, even though it shouldn't.]
[It's the second part that hurts to listen to. Giorno's raw admission of pain and grief, the way he struggles to put his words together. How he continues to press on, even when he wants to stop and hold it back. How it all boils down to two simple reasons: you were in pain, alone and I just wanted you. That's all it was. That's everything it was.]
I made you repeat yourself. Again. [He smiles again, a little rueful, voice thick but not wavering. Giorno's been calling him clever this entire time-- but if he's so clever, why wasn't he able to reason out something so simple?] Sorry. I know you hate that.
[Ah. He can't squeeze Giorno's hand, can he. Because his fingers are already laced too tightly around Giorno's. So he relaxes his grip instead.]
"If grief anchors your feet, then let me share it." [He laughs a little, eyes dropping down to their hands.] Although I suppose it doesn't count if you haven't said it yet. [He looks up again, expression and voice soft.] It goes both ways. If you're hurting, lean on me. Even if all we can manage together is a hobble, we can still move forward.
[Oh, no. Oh, no, he's losing it, he's teetering over the edge and he can feel it, falling facefirst into too-much, trying to scrabble back to safety and utterly unable to do it. Maybe unwilling. His voice is a breathy disaster and he can't stop staring, and he doesn't even know what he's staring at. Everything, maybe, everything that's happening or has happened or will happen, his own bitter resentment at not having been the one to heal Fugo in that restaurant, the way Fugo looks at their joined hands, the gentleness of his fingers.]
[His heart is physically trying to burst through his rib cage. He can't handle this. Fugo is apologizing and he feels like he's going to say something really, really stupid if he doesn't hurry up and fill the air between them with chatter. He can feel himself flushing. He can't look away. Someone needs to save him, right now.]
It's okay, I . . . you understood in the end, so . . .
[Every time Fugo laughs, he thinks his heart might stop. And he's still staring. If grief anchors your feet, then let me share it. No, his heart isn't stopping, it's trying to run itself out the door and down the street. And he's still staring, and he knows he must look crazy, and he's curling unconsciously closer, terribly desperate to do something and yet just as certain that he wants to stay exactly here forever--]
I . . . know, I . . . do. I am. Now. See?
[Because he wouldn't have told this to just anyone. It took months and months for even Kakyoin to pry it out of him. But he volunteered it to Fugo, practically. Please take this and hold it for me because I know you understand--that's what it was. Is. Will be.]
[Impulsively, he pulls their joined hands towards his chest and presses his lips to their knuckles. It's less a kiss and more just contact, closeness, another layer of anchoring. Affection, but also necessity. Don't leave me, is what he's still begging, although less desperately than before.]
I want to share with you. I want you to know me. I think I want--for you to keep that safe. Haruno. Until I figure out what I want to do with it. And I want this, just . . .
[Ugh. He gives up, buries his face against Fugo's shoulder, his breath hitching.]
I want to stay with you. Here. Please. It feels safe.
[Giorno is looking at him. Giorno is staring at him, wide-eyed and red in the face. He looks-- lost, sort of, adrift in feeling entirely too much. That's... because of him, isn't it, and the things they're talking about. What happens next is similar to balancing on a narrow ledge very high up: everything is fine until one looks down. Or, in this case, into Giorno's eyes, which are as blue and bottomless as a cloudless blue sky in the middle of summer. Fugo catches himself staring at the now sort of smudgey line Giorno has drawn around his eyelids and the way it contrasts with the spots of redness underneath them; how dark and delicate his eyelashes look and wondering, quite stupidly, if they're blonde or black underneath his mascara.
That is. Not what he should be paying attention to.]
[Fugo wants to look away. And he does, eyes sliding to the side to stare at-- his window, his bookshelf, his dresser, anywhere but at Giorno's face where he'll find a new detail to notice and pay attention to. But it doesn't last for long, because Giorno's brought their hands to his chest and his mouth down to their knuckles. It is hopelessly, hideously embarrassing to feel as much as he hears Giorno speak, in part because the gesture feels so intimate but mostly because he's thinking back to the time he kissed Giorno's hand. That Giorno. Thankfully doesn't remember, because it hasn't happened to him yet. Thank God for small blessings.]
Then-- don't go. Stay with me. [He's not sure where he managed to find his voice in all of that. His hand comes to a rest on Giorno's shoulder, but only to hold him close.] I can hold onto it. For as long as you need.
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[He gestures vaguely, flicking his wrist and hand towards his desk.] It was getting everywhere, so I put it away.
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[His smile is many things: bright, relieved, delighted, guileless. He pats Fugo on the cheek and then darts across the room to the desk, tugging the drawers open until he finds the right one. With a murmur of victory, he pulls a cup out and holds it close to his chest for just a second or two before seeming to realize what he's doing and drawing back to rest it on the desk.]
Sorry they took up so much space . . .
[Hm. He frowns a little and perches on the edge of the desk, heels swinging in midair. Then he peels the foil off the top of the cup and starts methodically removing the excess pudding from it with his fingertip.]
And all of it. I don't know why that started all of a sudden.
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There's always a lot to watch with Giorno, but this is-- well, it's a little pulse of strangeness that's hard for Fugo to keep his finger on. An equation with too many unknown variables, so the values he does know don't balance out yet. He knows that Giorno likes pudding; enough that he'll make trips to the grocery and stash it away in a special cabinet that houses nothing but pudding. More than that, pudding is ... important to Giorno. He was upset that it was all gone, worried that Fugo might have thrown it away, and then delighted to find it safe. He's eating it without a spoon for now, which is. Admittedly a little gross. But also very thorough and particular of him, in a very Giorno sort of way.]
It's fine. I don't mind. [Fugo briefly turns back to his bookshelf, sliding the books into their new proper places.] I've been meaning to reorganize my desk anyway. If you like, we can move it back tonight.
[Once the books are back in place, Fugo pauses and allows his fingers to nervously tap, tap, tap out a rhythm on the shelf. The act of putting things back in order has helped him calm down, but he's still feeling more than a little nervy.]
Do you think... [He trails off, not sure how to broach his thoughts.] It reminds me, a little, of when I brought you pudding.
[Except Gold Experience hasn't been satisfied with just one cup. Over time, it's piled up quite a bit.]
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[A moment's soft upswelling of panic, but he steps on it and squashes it as quickly as he can. His smile is a little more brittle now, but quite controlled, as he folds the now-clean foil lid into fourths.]
I can take it back myself. Just get it out of your way now. No need to wait.
[Really he just wants it back in his room where it belongs. It's not that he's worried about Fugo being upset, or at least not mostly. He's just . . . worried. Nebulously.]
[And then a bit more so. His brows draw together uncertainly.]
When you . . . ? When I was--
[It would probably help if he finished his thought, and yet.]
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[That would be easier, he thinks, then taking it all out armful by armful back to Giorno's room. He shifts in place, restless and unsure and growing a little more worried as the conversation unfolds, before further clarifying.]
When you weren't feeling well. [He quickly adds:] But it was just a thought. I have a lot of those. Probably too many.
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[Mmph. He needs to . . . not be so nervous, he thinks. It's just Fugo, isn't it? Not anyone bad. Fugo took care of him when he was weak and pathetic. So it's fine, it's totally fine. Talking about it is fine. Thinking about it is also fine.]
[This is fine.]
[He chews his lip, twisting the foil between his fingers.]
It's okay, I--I just didn't understand how it's, um. How it's the same as--when that happened.
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It's not that it was the same, just... [He stands in front of his desk chair and drums his fingers on the top of it.] It reminded me of it, because he was there. [His eyes dart down to his fingers, before looking uncertainly up at Giorno.]
Do you-- want to talk about it? [A brief, sheepish smile twitches across his face.] We don't have to. But if you do, you might want to move. That desk's made for utility first.
[So it can't be comfortable to sit on, especially for long periods of time.]
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I don't want to, but . . .
[He wrinkles up his nose a little, managing a smile, even if it's a little wry, a little bitter.]
Do you ever want someone to know something, but you don't want to have to explain it? It's like that.
[Sighing, he looks down at Fugo's hands. His long fingers, playing across the top of the chair like he's expecting music to come out of it. He wants to take Fugo's hand in his, but right now, he doesn't feel like he's worthy of it.]
Tell me where you want me to be? Please. And we can talk about it, if you want to.
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I want to understand. [He doesn't look away from Giorno's face for a long moment, his own expression soft and open. When he does, it's just to look around his room; a dimple appears in his cheek from where he bites the inside of his mouth while he considers their options.
Fugo's room is mostly empty; it could belong to anyone, or no one at all. The walls are the same color they were when he arrived and there's no new furniture. He doesn't have many things-- at least, not many possessions he leaves lying around in plain sight. He has no knick-knacks, no photographs, no little toys or items of interest. The face of his desk is clean and empty, notes and sheet music filed away in its drawers, save for a jar of pens and pencils positioned neatly in one corner. His clothes are all folded in his bureau or hanging in his closet. There's not a speck of dust to be found anywhere, or fingerprints on the glass of his windows. His bed is pristinely and precisely made, without a single wrinkle on the dark bedspread. It's his room, but he lives in it like a guest.]
We can sit at the table or on the bed. Whatever is more comfortable for you.
[He turns back to Giorno and, although it's not necessary for such a little jump from the desk to the floor, offers him his hand. He pauses, before asking:]
Would you like me to close the door while we talk?
[Fugo does not close his bedroom door-- at least when he's in it. It's always closed when in other parts of the house and always standing ajar when he's inside, whether he's reading, working, or trying to get some sleep. Sheila E once asked him if he was claustrophobic. Personally, Fugo thinks that word is too strong: even if he gets anxious in closed up spaces, it's really just a preference. A tactic. One of the little ways he tries to protect himself against Purple Haze that's too awkward to explain to others. Better safe than sorry.]
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[His breath stops, just for a moment. I'll be good, he reminds himself--doesn't mean to, but does, and takes Fugo's offered hand in his very close to desperately. It will be all right, he knows, if he's good. Or if he's not. Fugo is safe. So he needs to stop being so stupid.]
You . . . yes. But don't let go.
[His voice is soft, eyes downcast as he hops off the desk and comes to stand just at Fugo's side, close but not touching except where their fingers twine together.]
The bed is better. Please.
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I won't. I promise. [Fugo looks back up at Giorno's face and squeezes his hand, earnest and serious.] I've got you, Giogio.
[And he doesn't let go. Not when he crosses the room and closes the doors to his bedroom; first the one that opens to the main hall, then the second that leads to the little foyer between his room, the room that should have been Mista's, and Giorno's suite. And certainly not when he climbs into the bed, pulling Giorno together with him to sit with their backs against the headboard.]
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[He'd follow Fugo off the end of the earth like this. He's curled in on himself, preparing to hurt, a look that's rare on him now but not unknown. This is the look he wore under the onslaught of Abbacchio's tirade, when Jonathan and Jotaro were so close to coming to blows. He curls up against Fugo like Gold Experience did not so long ago, making himself small somehow despite the fact that they're about the same size, really.]
Sorry I'm being strange.
[It's muffled against Fugo's shoulder; then he turns his face out to the room again and nudges Fugo's leg with his knee.]
I don't want to start. Maybe if you ask me something, it'll all . . . unfold. Like--a very gentle interrogation.
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Fugo's growing used to the way Giorno folds into himself, sometimes, taking up as little space as he can with his shoulders drawn and elbows close to his sides. Giorno calls it being strange. But it's not strange to Fugo at all: it's the way Fugo used to hold himself in front of his professors and his classmates and his grandfather, because--]
[Because it had felt better. Because if he could make himself small enough, maybe they would stop looking at him.]
It's okay. [Fugo brushes his thumb on the side of Giorno's hand, back and forth. He allows himself to settle around Giorno, steadily holding up his slender weight with his shoulder. In his mind's eye, he sketches out his unfinished equation: what he knows, what he can guess at, and things that he doesn't know at all. He thinks and he considers and, in the end, he selects a starting point with an item that he believes very strongly to be related.]
When we had lunch in October, the cook brought you a plate of chicken and potatoes. [He remembers, very clearly, the frustrated set of Giorno's mouth and the stubborn way he went about eating something he didn't care for.] You told me that you didn't care for chicken, because all your mother used to cook in the evenings was a dish called yakitori.
[Japanese food. Cooked on skewers. Meant to be served with bear. You impale the meat on sharp little sticks, Giorno had said, eyes flinty. The word he had used to describe his memories of those meals was "painful".]
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[He believes what Fugo's telling him, too. Even if it wasn't Fugo saying it--he laughs, and it's more bitter and self-deprecating than he means it to be, but he'd know regardless, wouldn't he. That sounds like him.]
I wanted you to know. I wanted you to figure it out so I didn't have to tell you. I wanted you to . . . I wanted someone to know, but especially you. And I didn't . . .
[His fingers clench tight in Fugo's shirtfront, just for a moment.]
When I left. I hadn't told anyone, not yet. Maybe by then I'd told Mista, but it's not like here, it's not like everyone knows at home. Because it's a weakness. It isn't safe for people to know some things. It's--
[And now he's rambling. He just wants to curl up and go to sleep for a while and wake up to Fugo knowing. But he wants Fugo to know more than he wants to run away.]
[He would tell Fugo something clever and thoughtful if it was him worrying. That everything would be all right, that it was okay to be honest. He can hear Fugo's heartbeat through the layers of clothing, his pulse beating through his skin, and feel it, too, in his fingertips and his own heart. He can always feel it. It's . . . grounding in its undeniability. Fugo's heart is beating. So is his own. It's safe.]
[He breathes out, slow and steady.]
She made it sometimes. It was the only thing she made, but she only made it sometimes. The rest of the time she just . . . didn't make anything. She went away.
[What is he afraid of? Think about it. What could hit him now that's worse than what he's already known? He will never be alone again. He's promised himself this; he's made it so. And even without trying, it's staying that way. People care for him, people stay with him. Fugo isn't going to leave.]
For . . . days sometimes. I don't know where. Somewhere else. And I . . .
[His voice is so soft and small, words short and clipped and different-sounding somehow, the edges rounded in a way that is not Italian. Something else.]
When I could get into the cupboard--when I was able to. There was pudding sometimes. It didn't go bad, so . . .
[So. He falls silent, breathing one-two-three in and one-two-three out. This close, he can see the individual threads on Fugo's shirt. He squeezes Fugo's hand. Don't go.]
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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.
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[There's no way he could possibly articulate what this means to him, all of this. He's a remarkably well-spoken person for his age, but this--this topic always leaves him monosyllabic and frightened of his own tongue, and Fugo's response leaves him breathless, dizzy with the need for it to be true. All of it--the startle, the anger, the comfort--he needs all of that. He's so needy, he knows, he should need less, but he can't make it so. And here Fugo is, giving it all to him without even being asked.]
How are you--
[How are you so perfect, is what he's going to ask, but he can't. He knows if he does it'll be one of those things, and he's not himself enough to navigate that. So he bites down hard on his bottom lip as Fugo wraps his arm around his shoulder (always touching, always, never leaving, constant) and gets closer the only way he knows how: tucks his head under Fugo's chin and presses his face to his shirt, toes curling inside his socks, eyes squeezed tight shut.]
I know . . . I know why he said that, even though I hadn't thought of it yet. To say that. Isn't it strange? I know why he did everything that he did, because even though I hadn't done it yet, it's still me. I know he wanted so much for someone to know and knew that you would figure it out and he wouldn't feel so alone anymore.
[It comes out rushed and breathy, a torrent of words, quick but not desperate. He feels so safe that it feels impossible, so small that he feels like someone else. Like Haruno, maybe, if Haruno had been luckier.]
Did you . . . I--I want.
[Everything, yes, he would like to live in Fugo's drawer himself, actually, shrink himself up small and live in his pocket, run fingers through his hair every second of every day, fall asleep here and wake up still sleepy and safe enough that he dozes off again. He squeezes Fugo's fingers again without meaning to.]
. . . Ti voglio bene. I'd like that. Did you--did you figure out the rest of it? The other . . .
[Purin. Yakitori. Can Giorno let that go, too? Can he let it breathe in the space between them?]
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seems like the right thing to do.
Fugo twists his head and makes a soft negative sound, mm-mm, and rests his chin on top of Giorno's head. He closes his eyes and listens to Giorno breathe; feels it as it pulls in and out underneath his arms like a tide.]
It isn't strange. He's still you. And isn't that what you wanted? [He opens his eyes, eyes drifting towards the opened, uneaten cup of pudding on his desk.] For me to know without you having to explain it.
[He falls quiet again. Turns over the words, ti voglio bene, and how precious they are to him. About Giorno's question, which he's been puzzling over for months on his own because the solution was so obvious but too personal to confirm in question. The second part is tricky, but easier than the first.]
Before she brought you to live in Napoli, you ate yakitori and-- [Here, he shapes the word carefully in his mouth. There's a particular consonant he needs to watch: something between r and l that doesn't exist in Italian or English or French. A unique sound from a language spoken far across the sea.] purin in Japan.
[He bites his lip, swallows, and tightens his grip on Giorno's hand. He can't say it, yet. Can't give shape to the enormous, frightening mess of emotion he feels towards Giorno, even though it's becoming more and more obvious what he feels. He can only hope that Giorno can understand what he means without words. Because reaching out and meeting each other halfway... if that's not what it means to love someone, what is?]
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Haruno.
[It drifts out delicate between breaths. His eyes slip open, looking at nothing much. Had he meant to say that? It's hard to know. He's so . . . not happy. But not entirely sad, either.]
That was my name. Once. I didn't know . . . why no one would say it anymore, after we moved. I didn't know who "Giorno" was. Or what all the new words were . . .
[He rubs his cheek against Fugo's shoulder, humming under his breath.]
Can't tell too many people, hm? Have to be Italian, to get what I want. And I want . . . everything. So I'm . . . an invader. Hiding in plain sight.
[That's part of it, too, isn't it? Hiding in plain sight. Sleight of hand. Feeling too much and hiding most of it. Fugo knows all about that, of course he does. Not wanting to be alone, not trusting. Not wanting to get close, either.]
[But they're close now, he thinks. Lifting his head, he gives Fugo a lazy smile. So relaxed and so grateful. It's a painfully honest expression, especially on him, and he doesn't bother to hide his affection. There's so much of it, he probably couldn't anyway.]
I wanted you to know. But more than that--really, I just wanted you. I think that means I'm terribly clever in the future, wanting someone so wonderful.
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Something about the way Giorno describes himself sticks with him. An invader, hiding in plain sight. Giorno doesn't leave him much time to think about it, so he tucks the thought away for another day because now he has to deal with the problem of Giorno saying nice things to him. When they're this close and both of his hands are occupied, there's no way to hide the way his face is heating up or his crooked little smile when he looks down to meet Giorno's eyes. His recourse is to turn his face away and that's not an option he's willing to take right now. Any other day he might kick up a fuss at the sudden compliment or pull away out of embarassment, but today-- well, he'll just let it slide.]
You're terribly clever all the time, Giogio. It's sort of a problem for me, since I want to keep up with you. Is there anything you can't figure out? [Italian. Taking over Napoli's most powerful crime family and transforming it in half a year to the most powerful crime family in all of Italy. There's humor in Fugo's eyes, fondness sketched in the corners of his mouth.] ... I think I understand a little better the things you must have been thinking about back then.
[His understanding isn't complete. Not yet. But he's one very important step closer.]
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[He'll have to think about this. Part of him wants very much to give it away--to give Fugo that name, if he wants it, to do with what he will. But it's better to be cautious. They're already teetering towards feeling-too-much, and as nice as that can be, he likes this too. This . . . pleasant stasis.]
[Fugo is so lovely when he's smiling, when he's relaxed. Giorno wants so much to say so. But he doesn't.]
It sounds good, the way you say it.
[That instead, soft and thoughtful and pensive. It's clear that it's something unusual, something he finds curious. Something he wants to dig later-but not til later. Right now he wants to know something else.]
Could you tell me? I want to know what you think. I just wonder if it's the same, you know? As what I think. Because I think sometimes, in some ways, you're cleverer than I am.
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He'll think about Giorno's question instead. Take a moment to put his thoughts in order, because if he starts at the end everything will get muddled.]
I don't think I understand all of it. [His hand continues to rub slow, comforting circles into Giorno's shoulder. He hasn't objected yet, or tried to move away. And the motion helps Fugo, who hates to be still, stay grounded.] But I can tell you what I think I've put together.
[Fugo tips his head and leans back-- although not away; he pulls Giorno back with him-- on the headboard.]
I think it had to have started with tactics. Rationally speaking, I was a threat to your platform that you were the secret Boss of Passione who lived in hiding until the present because of your youth. [The story itself was romantic; it appealed to the hearts of the civilians who heard it and the members of Passione Giorno wanted to keep around. Traitors in the gang who tried to uncover his identity and usurp his position. An innocent girl being dragged into what could have become a war that would have torn the organization apart from the inside out.] Because I knew the truth about what happened. If the wrong people found me before you did and I told them the truth, it would have weakened your position. Because you couldn't let that happen, you had to find me.
I believe you eventually came to the conclusion that it was too dangerous to have my assassinated and, if you could ensure my loyalty, I was more useful to you alive than dead. [Fugo recites the following facts almost as if he's talking about a different person, not himself. He boils himself down to a simple, bulleted list of useful traits.] I can't control him well, but Purple Haze is a formidable Stand. I'm intelligent. I'm experienced in your organization.
[He frowns. But that's not it. If that were all, Giorno never would have reached out to him the way he did. After he proved his loyalty, Giorno would have just sent him to work with another assassination team. He never would have brought him home.]
I'm not sure what came first. Did you investigate my background, or find where I was hiding in Milan? [He resists the urge to pick at Giorno's shirt, searching for a loose thread that doesn't exist. Instead, he briefly tightens his grip on Giorno's hand.] I suppose it doesn't really matter. Regardless of when it happened, I'm certain you must have met with, or at least had someone talk to-- [He swallows and takes a moment to remind himself that he doesn't have to forgive them. Those people aren't his family. Not in the eyes of the law and not in the eyes of anyone who really matters. That word isn't accurate. He is under no obligation to use it.] ... my relatives.
[He falls quiet again, trying to gather his thoughts in order. It still doesn't make sense to him. Giorno's mental jump from "threat" to "friend". What really changed Giorno's mind? What was the driving motivation behind his decision to not just bring Fugo back into the fold and under his control, but welcome him home with open arms into his closest circle? There's a gap between points that he's had to skip over every time he thinks about it, because he just can't understand.]
Do you remember what Narancia said? Back in Venice. [He closes his eyes, thinking back to that awful, awful afternoon. The memory comes back to him, as crystal clear as ever: Trish's blood in the river, Narancia's stricken expression, the frantic way he threw himself off the dock and into the water.] ... I can't understand the rest of it, but I think you must have felt something similar after seeing what sort of house my grandfather kept. That was a part of why you wanted to bring me home, rather than just ensure I wasn't a threat to you.
[Giorno had known about what he had done to his professor. Giorno had cut through to the heart of what it was that made him so angry. Giorno understood that part of him, because he carried the same sort of wounds with him.]
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[He realizes this in a haze as Fugo leans back, pulling him along. They've never talked about this--not about what they've lost or how they managed to meet up again, then and here. There was a moment, that first day, when they glossed over it briefly. But it wasn't like this. Not like this, not in enough depth to cause pain to spark in his expression at the mention of Narancia's name. Your fault, your fault, something hisses in the back of his mind, and in truth he can't find a way to make that not seem true.]
[At least he's able to draw some comfort from the movement, the way that Fugo keeps him close and doesn't pull away, even when they're talking about horribly upsetting things. He follows Fugo back with perhaps too much alacrity, tightening his grip on Fugo's fingers and curling up against his chest like he wants to crawl inside it. He sort of does. It might be easier that way.]
[This isn't bad, though. Just difficult. Plenty of good things, valuable things, are difficult. So he breathes steadily, deliberately, closes his eyes for a moment, and opens them again to look at Fugo with a smile that's fragile, but very much real.]
You have most of it. I told you, you're very clever. There are two things you're missing, though. The one is that killing you was never anything but a last resort. I couldn't--
[His eyes dart sideways as he arches his shoulders a little against the movements of Fugo's hand. He wants to say don't stop doing that, but he's also pretty sure that if he gets off-topic he'll never get back on it. So he just bites his lip and presses on, thumb sliding against the side of Fugo's hand.]
It would be an insult to them to have you killed unless I absolutely had to. To all of them, but Bruno especially. And he--after all of that, after April, I knew I had to live to honor him, or what was it all for? So I never wanted to kill you.
And the other thing . . .
[Now he manages to look back at Fugo, not because it's easy but because it's necessary. He's visibly struggling, still smiling but struggling, but he's got to, because honesty is transmitted from eye to eye, and even if his truths aren't nice, they must be true.]
I hurt so much, Fugo. Then and now. I know, I know that when I went to get you in that restaurant I was still hurting. When I was planning all of this, I was hurting so much I thought I'd die. But I wasn't alone. You were. You were hurting as much as I was or more, you'd known them all so much longer, and you were all by yourself without your family. That wasn't right.
And after I found out--
[His breath hitches again; he pushes through, a stubborn line forming behind his brow. He feels a bit like he's begging Fugo to understand, but it's not shameful. It just is. It's honest.]
I do remember that. I did that, before I came here. I found clippings, and I knew--something about them, I just knew. I hadn't put it all together yet, but something about it wasn't right. You needed people who loved you. You needed us. We needed you. I couldn't have left you alone. I wanted you to be loved, I wanted you to be--close enough that we could love you. That was the right thing to do. And the thing that I wanted to do. You . . .
[He gives Fugo another smile, lopsided and wobbly this time.]
Like I said. I just wanted you. I still do.
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His fingers falter, just for a moment, when Giorno looks up to smile at him. He's caught off-guard by how warm it is, even through Giorno's unhappiness. But it's not a long-lived moment: as soon as he feels the light brush of Giorno's thumb on his hand, his hand picks up the movement again.]
[The first part is easier to accept. It's logical, in its own way: because he cared for and respected Bruno, he didn't want to kill someone who was a part of his team. Even if that person was a traitor. Even if that person was a threat to him. It flies in the face of logic and common sense, but it's very--
It's very like Giorno, now that he knows him a little better. So that makes sense to Fugo, even though it shouldn't.]
[It's the second part that hurts to listen to. Giorno's raw admission of pain and grief, the way he struggles to put his words together. How he continues to press on, even when he wants to stop and hold it back. How it all boils down to two simple reasons: you were in pain, alone and I just wanted you. That's all it was. That's everything it was.]
I made you repeat yourself. Again. [He smiles again, a little rueful, voice thick but not wavering. Giorno's been calling him clever this entire time-- but if he's so clever, why wasn't he able to reason out something so simple?] Sorry. I know you hate that.
[Ah. He can't squeeze Giorno's hand, can he. Because his fingers are already laced too tightly around Giorno's. So he relaxes his grip instead.]
"If grief anchors your feet, then let me share it." [He laughs a little, eyes dropping down to their hands.] Although I suppose it doesn't count if you haven't said it yet. [He looks up again, expression and voice soft.] It goes both ways. If you're hurting, lean on me. Even if all we can manage together is a hobble, we can still move forward.
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It's okay.
[Oh, no. Oh, no, he's losing it, he's teetering over the edge and he can feel it, falling facefirst into too-much, trying to scrabble back to safety and utterly unable to do it. Maybe unwilling. His voice is a breathy disaster and he can't stop staring, and he doesn't even know what he's staring at. Everything, maybe, everything that's happening or has happened or will happen, his own bitter resentment at not having been the one to heal Fugo in that restaurant, the way Fugo looks at their joined hands, the gentleness of his fingers.]
[His heart is physically trying to burst through his rib cage. He can't handle this. Fugo is apologizing and he feels like he's going to say something really, really stupid if he doesn't hurry up and fill the air between them with chatter. He can feel himself flushing. He can't look away. Someone needs to save him, right now.]
It's okay, I . . . you understood in the end, so . . .
[Every time Fugo laughs, he thinks his heart might stop. And he's still staring. If grief anchors your feet, then let me share it. No, his heart isn't stopping, it's trying to run itself out the door and down the street. And he's still staring, and he knows he must look crazy, and he's curling unconsciously closer, terribly desperate to do something and yet just as certain that he wants to stay exactly here forever--]
I . . . know, I . . . do. I am. Now. See?
[Because he wouldn't have told this to just anyone. It took months and months for even Kakyoin to pry it out of him. But he volunteered it to Fugo, practically. Please take this and hold it for me because I know you understand--that's what it was. Is. Will be.]
[Impulsively, he pulls their joined hands towards his chest and presses his lips to their knuckles. It's less a kiss and more just contact, closeness, another layer of anchoring. Affection, but also necessity. Don't leave me, is what he's still begging, although less desperately than before.]
I want to share with you. I want you to know me. I think I want--for you to keep that safe. Haruno. Until I figure out what I want to do with it. And I want this, just . . .
[Ugh. He gives up, buries his face against Fugo's shoulder, his breath hitching.]
I want to stay with you. Here. Please. It feels safe.
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That is. Not what he should be paying attention to.]
[Fugo wants to look away. And he does, eyes sliding to the side to stare at-- his window, his bookshelf, his dresser, anywhere but at Giorno's face where he'll find a new detail to notice and pay attention to. But it doesn't last for long, because Giorno's brought their hands to his chest and his mouth down to their knuckles. It is hopelessly, hideously embarrassing to feel as much as he hears Giorno speak, in part because the gesture feels so intimate but mostly because he's thinking back to the time he kissed Giorno's hand. That Giorno. Thankfully doesn't remember, because it hasn't happened to him yet. Thank God for small blessings.]
Then-- don't go. Stay with me. [He's not sure where he managed to find his voice in all of that. His hand comes to a rest on Giorno's shoulder, but only to hold him close.] I can hold onto it. For as long as you need.
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