[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.
[It's not a sound made in pain or even upset; just comprehension. His fingers slow in Fugo's hair because--it's true, isn't it. It's so accurate, the best and most precise way of explaining it. Not wrong but unfair, a matter of incorrect attribution.]
[Absently, Giorno begins to braid the short, loose hair at the nape of Fugo's neck into something resembling a loose, lopsided French braid.]
That's really what it is, isn't it. Being overwhelmed by something that so many people take for granted simply because--for me, anyway . . . even a tiny amount is more than I know what to do with . . .
[He sighs softly, blinking up at Fugo again.]
Most days I want to learn what it feels like to be hungry for that. I want to convince myself that I deserve it. But some days I just want to . . . stop searching and fighting so hard. You know? It's exhausting.
[Has his hair really gotten so long that Giorno can make something out of it, however tiny? He keeps thinking it needs to be trimmed in odd moments and forgetting about it when he has the free time. It feels odd. His hair growing out means that time is continuing to pass and he's still here. He's not in the hospital, he's not in the bar, he's not in an apartment that he lived in for six months but found nothing personal to fill it with. He's here with Giorno in a bedroom of a house that, although he can't bring himself to think of it as home, feels homelike. It feels like home because Giorno and Buccellati are just a few doors away on either side.]
Happiness keeps sneaking up onto me. [His hands slowly open and close in his lap, trying to hold onto thin air.] Sometimes I want to hold onto it, for as long as I can. Try and make the most of it. But usually it just feels like too much to hold onto at once. Because it's more than what I should have.
[Rationally speaking, he knows that happiness is something intangible and personal. It can't be traded back and forth. But sometimes, he wistfully wishes that it could be. That way he could take what he didn't need and give it to someone who did.]
[God, and it hurts to say. But it's true, isn't it? He feels the same exact way. And he's horrified and offended and broken-hearted to hear Fugo say it, but he's not shocked. They're too similar in too many ways. He wants to take it away and hold it in the cup of his hands until he crushes it into dust, but he can't. It doesn't work that way.]
I don't agree with you. Not about you, but--you probably don't agree about me either, right?
It's hard. To care about yourself even a little bit as much as other people love you.
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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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[It's not a sound made in pain or even upset; just comprehension. His fingers slow in Fugo's hair because--it's true, isn't it. It's so accurate, the best and most precise way of explaining it. Not wrong but unfair, a matter of incorrect attribution.]
[Absently, Giorno begins to braid the short, loose hair at the nape of Fugo's neck into something resembling a loose, lopsided French braid.]
That's really what it is, isn't it. Being overwhelmed by something that so many people take for granted simply because--for me, anyway . . . even a tiny amount is more than I know what to do with . . .
[He sighs softly, blinking up at Fugo again.]
Most days I want to learn what it feels like to be hungry for that. I want to convince myself that I deserve it. But some days I just want to . . . stop searching and fighting so hard. You know? It's exhausting.
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Happiness keeps sneaking up onto me. [His hands slowly open and close in his lap, trying to hold onto thin air.] Sometimes I want to hold onto it, for as long as I can. Try and make the most of it. But usually it just feels like too much to hold onto at once. Because it's more than what I should have.
[Rationally speaking, he knows that happiness is something intangible and personal. It can't be traded back and forth. But sometimes, he wistfully wishes that it could be. That way he could take what he didn't need and give it to someone who did.]
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[God, and it hurts to say. But it's true, isn't it? He feels the same exact way. And he's horrified and offended and broken-hearted to hear Fugo say it, but he's not shocked. They're too similar in too many ways. He wants to take it away and hold it in the cup of his hands until he crushes it into dust, but he can't. It doesn't work that way.]
I don't agree with you. Not about you, but--you probably don't agree about me either, right?
It's hard. To care about yourself even a little bit as much as other people love you.