I'll say it again. As many times as you like. [The hand in Giorno's hair stills, but doesn't leave. Fugo presses him close and just holds him, breathing in and out. Like this, anything that wanted to get to Giorno would have to make it past the barrier of his bony shoulders and elbows. It doesn't look like much, but that's fine. It's better to be underestimated. It's why Fugo doesn't care much for knives or guns and instead prefers to use whatever he can lay hands on to plumb the surprising depths of his own viciousness.] Saying it reminds me I can be a little less afraid.
[Even this tired, Fugo can't help but think and wonder-- would it be easier for Giorno to take comfort, if it were offered as help for someone else? Maybe. He hopes so. It's true, anyway. Repeating and confirming his promises helps him to feel more grounded; more centered on the path he's decided to walk down.]
[If Giorno believed in God, what he would think right now is that this, right here, is the truest proof of God's blessing. That Fugo is with him--that he was taken away from his home, and Fugo was brought to stand beside him--that he isn't alone--even on the brightest days, there's a part of him that thinks he doesn't deserve that. In the middle of the night, most of him thinks he doesn't deserve it.]
[In Fugo's arms, Giorno shudders. One long shiver, and then a single sob, low as a moan and drawn-out. When he starts crying properly, though, when his tears start flowing steadily down his cheeks, it's in silence.]
[Giorno doesn't believe in God. But Fugo is here, and Giorno can believe in him.]
I'm sorry.
[It comes out on a hiccup. He curls closer, presses his face against Fugo's shoulder, his breathing heavy and frightened.]
I just want to be perfect. If I was better, then nothing bad would happen anymore, no one would--
[He manages to cut off his voice, but his mouth is already moving; the words leave me shape themselves against Fugo's shoulder, and he shudders again, silent and breathless.]
I just want, [he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut,] to be perfect. For you. You deserve it. I want to. Why can't I . . . ?
Edited (changes some wording to make myself Sadder) 2017-03-13 21:01 (UTC)
[Giorno shakes, shivers, and makes a single sound of grief. And then he cries in silence, face hidden in the slope of Fugo's shoulder. Fugo holds him close and thinks, over and over again: I won't go. I'll stay. I won't go. I'll stay. I won't go. I'll stay. Maybe if he thinks it enough, Giorno will feel it in his heartbeat and breath.
He won't go. This is where his place is. He can't go back. He doesn't want to go back. He doesn't know what to do to help Giorno be less afraid, how he can help him shoulder his grief. All he can do is step halfway and reach blindly for his hand.]
I don't want you to be perfect. I want you to be you.
[Why is Fugo so good to him? He doesn't understand. He did it on purpose, tried to make himself so lovable and so needed, but it doesn't make sense. His plan didn't go right, Fugo almost died, it all so nearly fell apart, but Fugo is--]
[Fugo is here. Fugo's holding him, telling him impossible things as he gets his shoulder wet with tears and forgets how to breathe from crying so hard. Why? Why doesn't Fugo want him to be perfect?]
I'm no good, [he gasps, and then bites down hard on his lip and makes himself shut up. Promise me you won't die, he wants to demand, promise me, promise, please, Fugo, please, but he doesn't. He doesn't.]
Bruno, [he says instead, and inhales once so sharply that it hurts, then lets out one long shuddering breath.] Bruno was in--my dream.
[There's something bothering him behind his eyelids. It prickles and stings. His arms cinch tighter around Giorno in an effort to pull him closer, even when there's honestly no closer for them to get. He knows he can't, but he wishes he could draw that pain of Giorno and into himself and just-- hold onto it, for a little while. Maybe forever.]
I am yours, no matter what. I won't go anywhere. Not without you. [It's all he can think to say, because he ... knows. Even if he said it a hundred times, even if he said it a thousand times, Giorno wouldn't be able to believe he was good. Fugo strokes Giorno's hair, mentally counting out a triple meter: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. All of this before he even thinks of Bruno, which hurts more than when Angelica angled and buried a knife up to its hilt in his side.] Tell me. Let-- me hold onto it. At least until the morning, or as long as you need.
[Not--of this. Of telling. He is a little, but also--it's not his pain that he's afraid of. If anyone's going to hurt, it should be him. It should. It's his fault. It's his fault that Bruno's dead, that Abbacchio who never trusted him is dead, that Narancia who never got a chance to live is dead, and everything Fugo knew was ripped away from him.]
[It's his fault. He should hurt. But he doesn't want to hurt Fugo anymore.]
[He presses his nose against the sleepy smell of Fugo's nightshirt and shakes his head, just slightly.]
I'm--please. Is it going to hurt you? I don't want to hurt you anymore, Fugo, please.
[Maybe, if he were a stronger person, he would be able to tell Giorno with certainty that, no, listening wouldn't hurt. But here's the truth: just thinking the name Bruno Buccellati tears him up inside. Because when he thinks of Bruno, he can't help but think of all the ugly ways he's failed him. How he broke the promise he made to stand by him. How, at the end of the day, the best he can manage is a shallow, superficial imitation of the ideals Bruno held onto so strongly that he gave his life to protect a girl he had only known for a few days.
And, yet. So much more than that.]
This hurts more. Knowing that you're struggling alone-- I can't stand it. [Fugo sighs. And then pulls in another breath; closes his eyes, so they won't be bothered by an annoying, prickly sort of feeling. Through it all, his hand doesn't stop moving in Giorno's hair.] "If grief anchors your feet, let me share it."
[If Giorno can't take a single step forward, that's fine-- Fugo will turn and step halfway to him instead. After all, those promises between them go both ways.]
[Hearing that back, those words that he pushed out of the depths of his own sorrow in a desperate attempt to fix a broken plan, to bring Fugo back to him--hearing that back from Fugo's mouth, when he feels so broken himself, is insane. Jarring. Baffling. Backwards. He feels like gravity's reversed. He feels so lost.]
[But--like maybe, lost is something he can be. Just for a while. Right here, with Fugo . . . he can be lost for a few moments. And Fugo will make sure he's found again.]
[Is that possible?]
[His breath draws in once, sharp and wheezy through the thickness of his tears. He pulls back just far enough to look Fugo in the eye, and he knows--it's easy to see. It's true.]
. . . Okay.
[He doesn't understand the part where it hurts Fugo, knowing he's upset and not allowing Fugo to help. He doesn't get it. But he can't deal with that right now. All he can manage is pressing the flat of his palm against Fugo's chest and focusing on his heartbeat. Fugo is here. Fugo is alive and safe and with him.]
Bruno was . . . dying. Again. But not dead. And hurting. Other things . . . other--about the mission. But it was all--everything was Bruno, in the end.
I hate it so much. I hate how much I made him hurt.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[Even this tired, Fugo can't help but think and wonder-- would it be easier for Giorno to take comfort, if it were offered as help for someone else? Maybe. He hopes so. It's true, anyway. Repeating and confirming his promises helps him to feel more grounded; more centered on the path he's decided to walk down.]
no subject
[In Fugo's arms, Giorno shudders. One long shiver, and then a single sob, low as a moan and drawn-out. When he starts crying properly, though, when his tears start flowing steadily down his cheeks, it's in silence.]
[Giorno doesn't believe in God. But Fugo is here, and Giorno can believe in him.]
I'm sorry.
[It comes out on a hiccup. He curls closer, presses his face against Fugo's shoulder, his breathing heavy and frightened.]
I just want to be perfect. If I was better, then nothing bad would happen anymore, no one would--
[He manages to cut off his voice, but his mouth is already moving; the words leave me shape themselves against Fugo's shoulder, and he shudders again, silent and breathless.]
I just want, [he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut,] to be perfect. For you. You deserve it. I want to. Why can't I . . . ?
no subject
He won't go. This is where his place is. He can't go back. He doesn't want to go back. He doesn't know what to do to help Giorno be less afraid, how he can help him shoulder his grief. All he can do is step halfway and reach blindly for his hand.]
I don't want you to be perfect. I want you to be you.
no subject
[Fugo is here. Fugo's holding him, telling him impossible things as he gets his shoulder wet with tears and forgets how to breathe from crying so hard. Why? Why doesn't Fugo want him to be perfect?]
I'm no good, [he gasps, and then bites down hard on his lip and makes himself shut up. Promise me you won't die, he wants to demand, promise me, promise, please, Fugo, please, but he doesn't. He doesn't.]
Bruno, [he says instead, and inhales once so sharply that it hurts, then lets out one long shuddering breath.] Bruno was in--my dream.
no subject
[There's something bothering him behind his eyelids. It prickles and stings. His arms cinch tighter around Giorno in an effort to pull him closer, even when there's honestly no closer for them to get. He knows he can't, but he wishes he could draw that pain of Giorno and into himself and just-- hold onto it, for a little while. Maybe forever.]
I am yours, no matter what. I won't go anywhere. Not without you. [It's all he can think to say, because he ... knows. Even if he said it a hundred times, even if he said it a thousand times, Giorno wouldn't be able to believe he was good. Fugo strokes Giorno's hair, mentally counting out a triple meter: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. All of this before he even thinks of Bruno, which hurts more than when Angelica angled and buried a knife up to its hilt in his side.] Tell me. Let-- me hold onto it. At least until the morning, or as long as you need.
no subject
[Not--of this. Of telling. He is a little, but also--it's not his pain that he's afraid of. If anyone's going to hurt, it should be him. It should. It's his fault. It's his fault that Bruno's dead, that Abbacchio who never trusted him is dead, that Narancia who never got a chance to live is dead, and everything Fugo knew was ripped away from him.]
[It's his fault. He should hurt. But he doesn't want to hurt Fugo anymore.]
[He presses his nose against the sleepy smell of Fugo's nightshirt and shakes his head, just slightly.]
I'm--please. Is it going to hurt you? I don't want to hurt you anymore, Fugo, please.
no subject
And, yet. So much more than that.]
This hurts more. Knowing that you're struggling alone-- I can't stand it. [Fugo sighs. And then pulls in another breath; closes his eyes, so they won't be bothered by an annoying, prickly sort of feeling. Through it all, his hand doesn't stop moving in Giorno's hair.] "If grief anchors your feet, let me share it."
[If Giorno can't take a single step forward, that's fine-- Fugo will turn and step halfway to him instead. After all, those promises between them go both ways.]
no subject
[Hearing that back, those words that he pushed out of the depths of his own sorrow in a desperate attempt to fix a broken plan, to bring Fugo back to him--hearing that back from Fugo's mouth, when he feels so broken himself, is insane. Jarring. Baffling. Backwards. He feels like gravity's reversed. He feels so lost.]
[But--like maybe, lost is something he can be. Just for a while. Right here, with Fugo . . . he can be lost for a few moments. And Fugo will make sure he's found again.]
[Is that possible?]
[His breath draws in once, sharp and wheezy through the thickness of his tears. He pulls back just far enough to look Fugo in the eye, and he knows--it's easy to see. It's true.]
. . . Okay.
[He doesn't understand the part where it hurts Fugo, knowing he's upset and not allowing Fugo to help. He doesn't get it. But he can't deal with that right now. All he can manage is pressing the flat of his palm against Fugo's chest and focusing on his heartbeat. Fugo is here. Fugo is alive and safe and with him.]
Bruno was . . . dying. Again. But not dead. And hurting. Other things . . . other--about the mission. But it was all--everything was Bruno, in the end.
I hate it so much. I hate how much I made him hurt.