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.
[Ah. Yes, that's--this is okay. He can calm down if he just stays here for a few moments, focused only on the angle of Fugo's collarbone and the laundry smell of his shirt. The hand on his shoulder is like sparks on his skin, but he breathes through it anyway, memorizing it.]
[After a moment, he nods wordlessly. He wants to say so much, but he can't figure out which thing to say first or if he should say any of them. He should be careful not to say something wrong--only somehow it feels like he can't do anything wrong right now except not being honest.]
[After a moment, he arches a little into the touch, pulling their joined hands to his chest so he can feel his own heartbeat. That helps, too.]
Thank you. For holding it. And me. And trusting me. I'm really happy . . .
[For a while, neither of them say anything. The quiet settles around them, reassuring rather than awkward. It's a relief to see that Giorno's promise has come true, how they don't always need to use words to communicate what they mean.]
I'm... [He half-chuckles in the back of his throat.] A lot of things. But happy is a good word to start with. I'm happy that you're happy.
[He falls quiet, fingers lightly fiddling with the seam of Giorno's shirt. Fugo rests his chin on the top of Giorno's head, before quietly continuing:]
[Oh. His free hand curls in Fugo's shirt, and he has to hide his grin against his shoulder. A moment later, he's peeking up a little, smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.]
That's really perfect. I want to hear about all the things, I think, if you ever want to tell them, but--that's such a good place to start.
And you can ask more, too. Of me. There's always more, although you've got the biggest piece now. But I think I really do want you to see me.
[Fugo squirms a little, restlessly shifting his shoulders and hips. Does he want Giorno to know everything that he's feeling? Yes. But also no. But mostly yes. Even if everything is a mess, if Giorno's the one listening-- well, it wouldn't be so bad.]
It's funny. Just a few days ago ago, I was talking to Kakyoin about how I wanted to understand what you were thinking better. [It's something he's been fretting and worrying over, picking apart thread by thread. And now he has the answer he's been looking over. In the end, it's not logical at all.] You'd think, for something I've been so preoccupied by, I would have more questions prepared.
[Fugo's sense of humor is ... very dry.]
One thing at a time, though. What do you want more, right now? [Briefly, from the look on his face, it seems like there's something else Fugo wants to say. But in the end do you want to see more of me or for me to see more of you is too weirdly embarrassing to actually say out loud. So his question hangs awkwardly without a conclusion in the air between them.]
[His gaze goes briefly unfocused, brow furrowed as he tries to figure out which one he wants more. Or, at least, more right now, because the implication is that he can get both eventually. The concept of permanence is so strange, though. He still isn't used to the fact that if he doesn't grab what he wants right away, it'll be there when he wants it next time.]
I don't know, I--Fugo, I don't even know what to think about the fact that you were talking about me.
[Which is more honest than he meant to be, but he's not really embarrassed about it, for once. When he looks up at Fugo, he seems genuinely puzzled, trying to reason it out, the pros and cons of each. Maybe he's thinking too much. At least he's not alone with that, though. Or maybe that makes it worse?]
[Really, though. Consider this: if he lets Fugo ask him questions now, it might be overwhelming or uncomfortable, but at least he's prepared for it, whereas if he allows Fugo to ask him at another time, he'll be taken by surprise. He also might be less honest in that situation, which would be wrong, especially after he's promised. And he's wanted to know what Fugo was thinking for a while, so that's only fair. Except Fugo has probably been preoccupied for longer, chronologically speaking, and also if Giorno lets him ask questions now on the assumption that next time he himself will be dishonest, that's not entirely fair in itself. He has to hold himself to a high standard, doesn't he? For both of them.]
[He plucks uncertainly at a button on Fugo's shirt.]
I want . . . to see more of you, I think. But this is hard.
Just for what we talk about first. We have plenty of time. [Both in this moment and, if the conversation ends up wandering, on another day. Little by little, he's becoming more certain of Giorno's hand in his and the place he has with him-- and the idea that Giorno isn't going to let him slip away and be alone ever again.]
How about we trade? [It's a little difficult when they're this close, but Fugo loosens his grasp and shifts in a way so he can look Giorno in the eye.] You want to know what I'm feeling, so I'll answer that. And then I'll ask you a question. After you answer my question, then you can ask me something else. And so on and so forth.
[And that's obviously the truth. He's visibly delighted by this solution, propping himself up a bit on his elbow so he can full-force grin at Fugo in approval of the Plan.]
That's very fair. Thank you, Fugo. See, I told you you were clever.
I never denied that. [Being clever is one of his few objectively positive traits. It just doesn't always translate well when it comes to his own emotions and interpersonal relationships. And sometimes it works against him, when he spends too much time thinking and not enough time doing.]
I'm... glad. [He starts at this point again, because they're both agreed on that it's a good place to start.] Um, that you're happy. That you feel safe like this. And that you trust me with your old name. ... it means a lot to me that you'd trust me with something like that, because--
[His eyes slide away from Giorno's face, to a wrinkle that's come up on his bedspread from where they've been sitting.]
It's painful, talking openly about-- [He falters, a little.] those sort of things. And difficult. Sometimes, it feels like it's easier to try and dig a deeper hole and hope that they stay buried for good this time. [He purses his lips and his fingers, still laced with Giorno's, tap restlessly on Giorno's knuckles.] It made me sad and angry to hear about your mother. She's the sort of person I hate the most.
[He watches Fugo as he relates all this. It must be difficult, he thinks, to let it show so much, especially for someone like Fugo, who would so much rather hide. But he's being so brave and so amazing right now--always, but right now especially, so honest and so good that Giorno can't help but smile, soft and approving.]
I'm really happy. Not just because I feel safe, but . . . I think it's really amazing, really impressive, that you can say all that . . . and I mean it, I'm not trying to be patronizing or anything. It's confusing and sort of awful to feel good things and bad things at once, isn't it? To be sad and happy at once. And it's so much easier to just not think about it.
[Gently, he looses their fingers from each other just for a few moments, so Fugo can fidget a little if he wants to (although in the moment before he lets go, he gives a quick squeeze of reassurance, that he isn't leaving for good). A second or two later, his fingers find Fugo's bangs, raking through them until they're pushed back from his face. It's meant to be soothing, and he's not sure if it'll work, but part of him also just wants to, so he does.]
[Because that last part, it makes his chest feel like it might burst.]
I don't want you to feel sad. But I think I have to learn that sometimes people do, and I can't stop it. So . . . more than that, I feel very--protected. And safe. Very safe, knowing you're angry on my behalf. That might be strange, I'm not sure. But it's true also.
[Surprise and puzzlement flicker across Fugo's face when Giorno slips his hand out of their grasp-- until it occurs to him that Giorno's picked up on his fidgeting and rather than telling him to be still or tolerating it, by letting go and giving him that little measure of comfort is saying it's fine if you need to. His relief is plain and instant, in a strange and watery smile and the way he holds himself a little less tightly. His now-free hand drops down to his knee and his fingers tap an invisible and silent scale, lightly rolling from his thumb to his pinky.]
Thank you. [He says this first, because it's important to him to acknowledge the gesture. He wants to Giorno to know how much it means to him, because all of a sudden it feels like everything. He looks up at Giorno's face when Giorno reaches up for his hair. He's gotten a little more used to the feeling of Giorno's fingers brushing through his hair; has started to associate it with the quiet time they spend together in the evenings, sometimes talking and sometimes reading and sometimes saying nothing at all. So it is soothing. What flusters him isn't Giorno, but his own words that tumble out of his mouth before he can stop to think them over:] Do you want me to move around so you can reach better?
[Unfortunately, it only occurs to him that this is an embarrassing suggestion after he says it. So he has nobody to blame that he's pink around the ears but himself, which unfortunately makes it a little worse. To cover his own fluster, Fugo twists his mouth and stubbornly continues on.]
It's very frustrating to me because all of them are... [He lifts his fidgeting hand and gestures vaguely with it.] Each one on their own is intense, but all together they're just a mess. I wish I could just feel one at a time. Or make one of them go away until the other one is finished.
[He hesitates, gaze restlessly flicking to the side before he makes himself look directly at Giorno, and quietly admits:] I've never felt safe talking like this. I've always worried about saying the wrong thing or something that I shouldn't. But with you it's different. It isn't easy-- but it's not impossible, either.
[Wait, hold on. This is all very important, and he will get back to it, he has every intention of getting back to it, but there's one thing he has to verify first that is, in this moment, the most important thing.]
[He leans back a little and looks at Fugo with an expression that hovers directly between disbelief and excitement.]
You mean you want me to?
[Because he wants to. He'd love to play with Fugo's hair. He'd probably give a kidney.]
[Oh, no. Giorno is looking at him. Giorno is looking at him, with a sense of growing excitement that's only a little dimmed by how he can't quite believe that Fugo himself made the suggestion. Every night until now, Giorno is always the one who has asked. (And he always asks before he starts in earnest and never, ever seems to mind on the rare occasions when Fugo tells him "no" or "not right now".) Fugo squirms underneath Giorno's focus, thrust immediately back into a flustered state of mind.]
I-- [Mmmph. His first instinct is to try and play and off that he "doesn't mind". Except that's not entirely honest and he doesn't want to lie, even by omission.] ... yes. I would. Like you to do that.
[He can feel it. Death is approaching. He was just getting collected again and now this is happening, and all he can think about is Polnareff's stupid advice to just kiss him. He won't, he's not going to, but his heart feels much too big for his chest and he's absolutely, entirely losing his mind.]
Okay.
[It comes out a little weaker than he intends it to. He bites his bottom lip briefly.]
I'd like to do it, also. So. Yes, please. If you don't mind moving a little.
[Fugo nods. This is because he doesn't have a voice anymore. It's gone, probably forever, and there's nothing even Gold Experience can do to fix it. He's going to have to make good on his threat of stealing Star Platinum's notecards. Find a book on sign language and insist that Giorno learn it too.
The point is that he's too embarrassed to talk, so instead he untangles himself from Giorno entirely and repositions himself so he's at a better angle for Giorno to reach for his hair. No kidneys need to be given to make this happen.]
[Okay. Okay, well . . . okay. So he is allowed, and Fugo is moving to make it happen. That's good. That's very good. And since Fugo is doing that for him (or for both of them? since he said he wanted Giorno to play with his hair? what?), it's Giorno's job to get them back on track. He didn't mean to get them so off track, either, but oh. Just oh, at all of this.]
[He bites his lip again. Focus. They are Conversing about Emotions. He can do that. All right. He shifts and reaches, a little tentatively at first, for Fugo's hair, carding his fingers through it with something approaching reverence. It's easier to focus on that than on Fugo's face for a moment, anyway.]
. . . I was thinking the same thing. I have been for a while, actually. Not just today, although it's clearest today, I suppose--less diluted by other things. But I'd never think of just telling someone all of this normally, only with you it just feels--difficult, but not dangerous. And I was a little sad afterwards, but not very sad.
I feel like I spend so much time hiding, but I don't have to with you. Even if what I show is all the knots in my heart that I don't think will ever be untangled, you won't think it's bad or strange or stupid. You just listen. And--sometimes get angry for me.
[A beat, maybe two.]
I'm still not used to that. It feels strange. Good strange, though. Do you ever feel good strange?
[He's made it through the hardest part of all of this: first asking Giorno if he wants to play with his hair and then admitting it's something he wants. He still feels off-kilter and flustered, but he can lean in towards the touch he's becoming more familiar with. Most days, Giorno reaches for him with airy and effusive confidence; but some days, like today, he reaches as if part of him is certain that Fugo jerk away if he's not careful enough.]
On the first day I came here, every time you and Buccellati said something about-- "we can talk about it at home" or "I'll see you at home"... [Fugo draws one bony hand over the place underneath his ribs where his heart should be.] It hurt to hear that, because it wasn't something I thought was possible. In a good way, though. Like you pried my fingers off of something I was holding onto too tightly.
[Because it hadn't been obvious to him on that day that he could just go back home with the two of them. That there was nothing between them that Bruno needed to forgive. How they were still friends, they were still family. It still hurts to think about, but the thought has lost its most jagged of edges. He turns a thought over in his mind, dropping his hand into his lap. His hands come together and he restlessly starts to fiddle with and twist his fingers.]
Most of what I feel seems like it should be strange. It's ... too much, or not enough, or too many things all at once. That's what being happy feels like most of the time. Strange, but in a good way.
[Fugo's hair is soft. Not as soft as his own, nor quite as curly, but more than soft enough that he can run his fingers through from roots to ends. Normally he goes into playing with anyone's hair with some intention, some end product in mind--just as he does with conversations, meetings, relationships. But with Fugo it's so much less difficult, for some reason, to relax. Even when talking about things like this, he doesn't come into it wanting to resolve something and then stop. It's fine to just . . . talk.]
[Fugo smells like coffee. Giorno blinks a little, slow and almost sleepy, trying to process all of this.]
I sort of hate it that most of the time you have to hurt before you feel better. Hurting hurts too much. I don't like it . . . especially not when it's someone I love.
You're right, though.
[He curls a lock of Fugo's hair around his finger, then leans in and brushes his hair away from his face again. His eyes are so solemn, so open.]
Sometimes I feel like every time I'm happy, I'm stealing it from someone else. Sometimes I can forget that. But that hurts, too. And then . . . being happy when you haven't been for so long is like trying on clothing that fits after only ever wearing clothes that are too big your whole life. It feels tight and wrong and overwhelming and strange, but everyone is telling you it's good.
[Fugo doesn't think much about his hair, other than it exists and he likes it to be combed in a particular way. And that he really, really needs to go at it with a pair of scissors, because all the pieces that should be shorter than the rest are longer than they should be. And it's getting to the point where it's easier to just tie it back off of his neck rather than pin it up when he's playing the piano. He needs to find a headband.
Whenever they speak this personally, Fugo finds himself at war between his instinct to look away yanks against his desire to put everything about Giorno and what he's saying to memory. The way Giorno's mouth moves, how Giorno blinks to collect himself, the light touch of his fingers in his hair. For how difficult he is to look at, sometimes, Fugo gets the feeling that he'd be content just to watch all the little ways Giorno's face changes.]
[Not so long ago, the words someone I love in relation to himself would have been too painful, too overwhelming to hear. They still hurt, in their own way. They're still a lot: hearing them makes him feel a sunburst of gladness, a quaking sense of relief, and a sneaky sense of guilt slithering underneath. But the idea that Giorno cares about him strongly enough to use the words ti voglio is another thing he's getting used to, every time he hears it and every time he observes it.]
That's... very apt. [Giorno doesn't frame it the way Fugo does, but it feels wrong is very close to--] ... it feels unfair.
[To let himself feel happy. To let himself be comforted. To let go of some of the ugliness he carries with him, in the presence of people he loves so much it makes his heart ache.]
Have you ever felt like you don't need to be as happy as you are? That-- even just the little bit of happiness you had was more than enough, so you don't know what to do with the rest of it.
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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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[After a moment, he nods wordlessly. He wants to say so much, but he can't figure out which thing to say first or if he should say any of them. He should be careful not to say something wrong--only somehow it feels like he can't do anything wrong right now except not being honest.]
[After a moment, he arches a little into the touch, pulling their joined hands to his chest so he can feel his own heartbeat. That helps, too.]
Thank you. For holding it. And me. And trusting me. I'm really happy . . .
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I'm... [He half-chuckles in the back of his throat.] A lot of things. But happy is a good word to start with. I'm happy that you're happy.
[He falls quiet, fingers lightly fiddling with the seam of Giorno's shirt. Fugo rests his chin on the top of Giorno's head, before quietly continuing:]
Thank you for wanting me to come home.
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[Oh. His free hand curls in Fugo's shirt, and he has to hide his grin against his shoulder. A moment later, he's peeking up a little, smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.]
That's really perfect. I want to hear about all the things, I think, if you ever want to tell them, but--that's such a good place to start.
And you can ask more, too. Of me. There's always more, although you've got the biggest piece now. But I think I really do want you to see me.
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It's funny. Just a few days ago ago, I was talking to Kakyoin about how I wanted to understand what you were thinking better. [It's something he's been fretting and worrying over, picking apart thread by thread. And now he has the answer he's been looking over. In the end, it's not logical at all.] You'd think, for something I've been so preoccupied by, I would have more questions prepared.
[Fugo's sense of humor is ... very dry.]
One thing at a time, though. What do you want more, right now? [Briefly, from the look on his face, it seems like there's something else Fugo wants to say. But in the end do you want to see more of me or for me to see more of you is too weirdly embarrassing to actually say out loud. So his question hangs awkwardly without a conclusion in the air between them.]
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[His gaze goes briefly unfocused, brow furrowed as he tries to figure out which one he wants more. Or, at least, more right now, because the implication is that he can get both eventually. The concept of permanence is so strange, though. He still isn't used to the fact that if he doesn't grab what he wants right away, it'll be there when he wants it next time.]
I don't know, I--Fugo, I don't even know what to think about the fact that you were talking about me.
[Which is more honest than he meant to be, but he's not really embarrassed about it, for once. When he looks up at Fugo, he seems genuinely puzzled, trying to reason it out, the pros and cons of each. Maybe he's thinking too much. At least he's not alone with that, though. Or maybe that makes it worse?]
[Really, though. Consider this: if he lets Fugo ask him questions now, it might be overwhelming or uncomfortable, but at least he's prepared for it, whereas if he allows Fugo to ask him at another time, he'll be taken by surprise. He also might be less honest in that situation, which would be wrong, especially after he's promised. And he's wanted to know what Fugo was thinking for a while, so that's only fair. Except Fugo has probably been preoccupied for longer, chronologically speaking, and also if Giorno lets him ask questions now on the assumption that next time he himself will be dishonest, that's not entirely fair in itself. He has to hold himself to a high standard, doesn't he? For both of them.]
[He plucks uncertainly at a button on Fugo's shirt.]
I want . . . to see more of you, I think. But this is hard.
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How about we trade? [It's a little difficult when they're this close, but Fugo loosens his grasp and shifts in a way so he can look Giorno in the eye.] You want to know what I'm feeling, so I'll answer that. And then I'll ask you a question. After you answer my question, then you can ask me something else. And so on and so forth.
Would that be better?
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[And that's obviously the truth. He's visibly delighted by this solution, propping himself up a bit on his elbow so he can full-force grin at Fugo in approval of the Plan.]
That's very fair. Thank you, Fugo. See, I told you you were clever.
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I'm... glad. [He starts at this point again, because they're both agreed on that it's a good place to start.] Um, that you're happy. That you feel safe like this. And that you trust me with your old name. ... it means a lot to me that you'd trust me with something like that, because--
[His eyes slide away from Giorno's face, to a wrinkle that's come up on his bedspread from where they've been sitting.]
It's painful, talking openly about-- [He falters, a little.] those sort of things. And difficult. Sometimes, it feels like it's easier to try and dig a deeper hole and hope that they stay buried for good this time. [He purses his lips and his fingers, still laced with Giorno's, tap restlessly on Giorno's knuckles.] It made me sad and angry to hear about your mother. She's the sort of person I hate the most.
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I'm really happy. Not just because I feel safe, but . . . I think it's really amazing, really impressive, that you can say all that . . . and I mean it, I'm not trying to be patronizing or anything. It's confusing and sort of awful to feel good things and bad things at once, isn't it? To be sad and happy at once. And it's so much easier to just not think about it.
[Gently, he looses their fingers from each other just for a few moments, so Fugo can fidget a little if he wants to (although in the moment before he lets go, he gives a quick squeeze of reassurance, that he isn't leaving for good). A second or two later, his fingers find Fugo's bangs, raking through them until they're pushed back from his face. It's meant to be soothing, and he's not sure if it'll work, but part of him also just wants to, so he does.]
[Because that last part, it makes his chest feel like it might burst.]
I don't want you to feel sad. But I think I have to learn that sometimes people do, and I can't stop it. So . . . more than that, I feel very--protected. And safe. Very safe, knowing you're angry on my behalf. That might be strange, I'm not sure. But it's true also.
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Thank you. [He says this first, because it's important to him to acknowledge the gesture. He wants to Giorno to know how much it means to him, because all of a sudden it feels like everything. He looks up at Giorno's face when Giorno reaches up for his hair. He's gotten a little more used to the feeling of Giorno's fingers brushing through his hair; has started to associate it with the quiet time they spend together in the evenings, sometimes talking and sometimes reading and sometimes saying nothing at all. So it is soothing. What flusters him isn't Giorno, but his own words that tumble out of his mouth before he can stop to think them over:] Do you want me to move around so you can reach better?
[Unfortunately, it only occurs to him that this is an embarrassing suggestion after he says it. So he has nobody to blame that he's pink around the ears but himself, which unfortunately makes it a little worse. To cover his own fluster, Fugo twists his mouth and stubbornly continues on.]
It's very frustrating to me because all of them are... [He lifts his fidgeting hand and gestures vaguely with it.] Each one on their own is intense, but all together they're just a mess. I wish I could just feel one at a time. Or make one of them go away until the other one is finished.
[He hesitates, gaze restlessly flicking to the side before he makes himself look directly at Giorno, and quietly admits:] I've never felt safe talking like this. I've always worried about saying the wrong thing or something that I shouldn't. But with you it's different. It isn't easy-- but it's not impossible, either.
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[Wait, hold on. This is all very important, and he will get back to it, he has every intention of getting back to it, but there's one thing he has to verify first that is, in this moment, the most important thing.]
[He leans back a little and looks at Fugo with an expression that hovers directly between disbelief and excitement.]
You mean you want me to?
[Because he wants to. He'd love to play with Fugo's hair. He'd probably give a kidney.]
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I-- [Mmmph. His first instinct is to try and play and off that he "doesn't mind". Except that's not entirely honest and he doesn't want to lie, even by omission.] ... yes. I would. Like you to do that.
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[Well, god, he's going to die, isn't he.]
[He can feel it. Death is approaching. He was just getting collected again and now this is happening, and all he can think about is Polnareff's stupid advice to just kiss him. He won't, he's not going to, but his heart feels much too big for his chest and he's absolutely, entirely losing his mind.]
Okay.
[It comes out a little weaker than he intends it to. He bites his bottom lip briefly.]
I'd like to do it, also. So. Yes, please. If you don't mind moving a little.
[h e l p h i m]
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The point is that he's too embarrassed to talk, so instead he untangles himself from Giorno entirely and repositions himself so he's at a better angle for Giorno to reach for his hair. No kidneys need to be given to make this happen.]
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[He bites his lip again. Focus. They are Conversing about Emotions. He can do that. All right. He shifts and reaches, a little tentatively at first, for Fugo's hair, carding his fingers through it with something approaching reverence. It's easier to focus on that than on Fugo's face for a moment, anyway.]
. . . I was thinking the same thing. I have been for a while, actually. Not just today, although it's clearest today, I suppose--less diluted by other things. But I'd never think of just telling someone all of this normally, only with you it just feels--difficult, but not dangerous. And I was a little sad afterwards, but not very sad.
I feel like I spend so much time hiding, but I don't have to with you. Even if what I show is all the knots in my heart that I don't think will ever be untangled, you won't think it's bad or strange or stupid. You just listen. And--sometimes get angry for me.
[A beat, maybe two.]
I'm still not used to that. It feels strange. Good strange, though. Do you ever feel good strange?
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On the first day I came here, every time you and Buccellati said something about-- "we can talk about it at home" or "I'll see you at home"... [Fugo draws one bony hand over the place underneath his ribs where his heart should be.] It hurt to hear that, because it wasn't something I thought was possible. In a good way, though. Like you pried my fingers off of something I was holding onto too tightly.
[Because it hadn't been obvious to him on that day that he could just go back home with the two of them. That there was nothing between them that Bruno needed to forgive. How they were still friends, they were still family. It still hurts to think about, but the thought has lost its most jagged of edges. He turns a thought over in his mind, dropping his hand into his lap. His hands come together and he restlessly starts to fiddle with and twist his fingers.]
Most of what I feel seems like it should be strange. It's ... too much, or not enough, or too many things all at once. That's what being happy feels like most of the time. Strange, but in a good way.
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[Fugo smells like coffee. Giorno blinks a little, slow and almost sleepy, trying to process all of this.]
I sort of hate it that most of the time you have to hurt before you feel better. Hurting hurts too much. I don't like it . . . especially not when it's someone I love.
You're right, though.
[He curls a lock of Fugo's hair around his finger, then leans in and brushes his hair away from his face again. His eyes are so solemn, so open.]
Sometimes I feel like every time I'm happy, I'm stealing it from someone else. Sometimes I can forget that. But that hurts, too. And then . . . being happy when you haven't been for so long is like trying on clothing that fits after only ever wearing clothes that are too big your whole life. It feels tight and wrong and overwhelming and strange, but everyone is telling you it's good.
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Whenever they speak this personally, Fugo finds himself at war between his instinct to look away yanks against his desire to put everything about Giorno and what he's saying to memory. The way Giorno's mouth moves, how Giorno blinks to collect himself, the light touch of his fingers in his hair. For how difficult he is to look at, sometimes, Fugo gets the feeling that he'd be content just to watch all the little ways Giorno's face changes.]
[Not so long ago, the words someone I love in relation to himself would have been too painful, too overwhelming to hear. They still hurt, in their own way. They're still a lot: hearing them makes him feel a sunburst of gladness, a quaking sense of relief, and a sneaky sense of guilt slithering underneath. But the idea that Giorno cares about him strongly enough to use the words ti voglio is another thing he's getting used to, every time he hears it and every time he observes it.]
That's... very apt. [Giorno doesn't frame it the way Fugo does, but it feels wrong is very close to--] ... it feels unfair.
[To let himself feel happy. To let himself be comforted. To let go of some of the ugliness he carries with him, in the presence of people he loves so much it makes his heart ache.]
Have you ever felt like you don't need to be as happy as you are? That-- even just the little bit of happiness you had was more than enough, so you don't know what to do with the rest of it.
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