[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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no subject
[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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.