[When Fugo comes stumbling out of a dream of balancing on the edge of a dock, unable to move forward or step back under the hot hot sun, he fights against a burden of weariness that threatens to send him back into it. He's so tired. But he's so sick of that dream, of when he was--
Of when he fucked everything up.]
[Getting up is a process, lately. Because Giorno has to be convinced to let him go. Some days it's easier than others. Okay, fine, he thinks, groggily, acknowledging that today isn't going to be an easy day.]
Giogio, s'morning. Gotta get up. [He can tell because there is more light, warm and sunny and cheerfully pounding on his temples, in the room than there was when he finally passed out. He groggily reaches from around Giorno's shoulder to push at the grit in the corners of his eyes and, for the time being, obediently stops wiggling.] Five minutes. Okay?
[He starts low, Giorno aims high. They'll meet somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen to twenty minutes. They usually do.]
[That's how it goes, usually. They compromise. Usually that's fine. Usually Giorno doesn't mind compromising with Fugo, because--it's good, to give Fugo space to make his own decisions. Sometimes.]
[Not today, though. Today--]
No.
[Just a flat no. He shakes his head, eyes wide and earnest.]
You need to stay in bed today. You're going to make yourself sick.
No? [Fugo's eyebrows come together, the stubborn gesture at odds with the rest of his drowsy confusion. He's not awake enough for this to make sense.] I can't just stay in bed.
[Days in bed are reserved for being "really" sick, a nebulously charted out condition with a flexible definition. But it basically boils down to this: if he can still move, if he can function even a little, he's not sick enough to spend a day.]
[By now, Fugo knows better than to try and physically wriggle out of Giorno's grip when he's like this. Trying to leave just makes him hold on tighter. He sighs, still so tired, and patiently rests his chin on top of Giorno's head. He reaches out and clumsily rests one arm over Giorno's waist, hoping to reassure him that, at least for now, he isn't going anywhere.]
I've been sleeping. [Not enough.] I've been eating. [Better than he's been sleeping. But his appetite, along with his nerves, is shot through.] That ... was a very bad day.
[A very bad day after a string of very bad nights of sleep and picking tiredly at his lunch. A very bad day where he pushed and shoved and pulled and threw himself past his own limits until his body simply refused to move the way it should have. He can see the points of Giorno's logic; how A connects to B and stretches out to C, with the end result of you need to rest.]
[He bites the inside of his cheek; it feels almost hard enough to bite right through. He doesn't want to say You're doing better, but it's not good enough. That's the worst thing he could think of to say to Fugo, who's so terrified all the time of not being good enough, of being left behind because he's not perfect.]
[But in this case, it's true. And it's not Fugo's fault, exactly, but it's still something Fugo needs to work on. Or Giorno needs to make him. Something. It just can't stay like this.]
It's just--everyone needs to rest sometimes. And you, you don't sleep well usually, so sometimes you have to just take a day--and just rest. It's okay, you should. I want you to. You--
[Ugh, so clumsy. He hates this--and then it just tumbles out, and he can't do anything about it--]
[Fugo flinches. He doesn't mean to. But he's heard that phrase so many times before; like a memorized formula, his memory fills in the blank. But it's not good enough. And for one awful, sinking moment, he is afraid because it's happening again and he knows he just-- he can't do this, not here, not again.
But Giorno doesn't actually say that. He pushes forward and says something else entirely. Nothing's wrong, really--(except for how everything is wrong, because it's April again and neither of them know how to break out of this yoke of grief and guilt)--it's just that Giorno wants him to rest. Because everyone needs it. And it's okay to.]
I didn't... I just... [Slowly, the taut muscles in his back and neck ease up. God, what's wrong with him. Didn't he promise? Didn't Giorno step halfway to him?] I want to do my best for you.
[Tired as he is, he doesn't realize how similar his words are to something Giorno told him months and months ago.
[His fingers curl up, soft and careful against Fugo's jaw. He's so tempted to brush worry away from the corner of Fugo's mouth with his thumb, but he doesn't. He just--]
[Sighs. Cups Fugo's jaw in his palm and closes his eyes, hooking his ankle over Fugo's under the blanket. Stay, stay, stay . . .]
You are perfect for me.
[Later, he won't be sure if he heard the similarity or if it was just--instinct. Because it's true. Fugo does his best. Fugo is perfect for him. What's the difference? In the end, to him, there isn't one.]
[It takes him a long moment to work up the courage (is it courage?) to open his eyes again. But he does, because it's his job to be brave for both of them when he has to be. Instinctively, protectively, possessively, he tightens his grip on Fugo's ankle.]
I'm not angry. I just thought I'd lose you again, Fugo, and I can't. I can't lose you.
[Distantly, Fugo can't help but wonder if he's dreaming again.]
[But, no. If he were dreaming, his head wouldn't ache like this. Giorno's fingers wouldn't feel so warm on his face. Sunlight wouldn't catch in his eyelashes or bring to his attention the faint dusting of faded childhood freckles over Giorno's nose. There would be no sounds of the city slowly starting to wake up filtering through their open window.
This isn't a dream. Giorno really is holding onto him as closely as he possibly can, one arm cinched tightly around his waist and the other curled awkwardly beneath him so Giorno can touch his face. He's even tangled their ankles together, stubbornly pulling Fugo towards him.]
[All of that is already so much, for someone as cold and distant as Fugo can be; who learned how to hold himself up on his own, shoulders straight and knees together, always a few steps out of reach from everyone else. But Giorno doesn't stop there: you are perfect for me he insists. And then, while Fugo is still reeling from that: I can't lose you.]
[He doesn't want to cry. Crying is such a pointless waste of energy, which he has precious little of to begin with. He's held it off for so long. He didn't cry when he first fell through the hole. He didn't cry in Woodhurst; not even when the days where Bruno, Abbacchio, and Narancia all came and ruthlessly passed on by.
(If he was going to cry, why not then? Why not for people who deserve it? Why now? Why over-- nothing? He doesn't understand. He just can't understand why, in the face of what might be the kindest thing someone has ever told him, he's starting to cry.)
Fugo's breath catches. His mouth, then his shoulders, tremble. The corners of his eyes prickle. When he closes them, instead of holding the tears back his eyelashes chase them out instead; the first few roll slowly down his face towards the pillow and Giorno's hand, which feels especially awful in how strange it is. And then he gives up with a great shudder, curling towards Giorno as he pulls him closer with the arm around his shoulders, and cries as quietly as he possibly can.]
[Oh, Giorno thinks weakly as Fugo closes his eyes, as he slumps, as tears start to roll down his cheeks. Oh, thank God. Finally.]
[It's been so long. Fugo's been so tense. The last time he saw Fugo cry, the first and last time, was in the restaurant. Fugo knelt at his feet, kissed his hand, and wept like the world was coming to an end. For him, it really was. For him, everything was ending, soon to start anew--but it's hard to believe in a brand new world when you barely have a grip on the passing of day into night anymore. Giorno understands. He does.]
[This moment has much of the same intimacy that that one did. More, even. They're here together, the two of them, Fugo crying onto the pillow that both of their heads have rested on, in the oddly-shaped bed that they've been curling up in together since they got to Terra Felis, curled up with each other as tightly as they can get. Their connection is no longer so tenuous that Fugo is afraid to touch--or that Giorno is.]
[So he pulls Fugo closer. There's not much closer to get anymore, but he finds a way to close the gap between them. He murmurs half-words and things that don't make sense, filler consonants and cheap vowels to rest the soothing lilt of his voice on. He brushes Fugo's tears away with his thumb until there are too many to push away, but he doesn't tell Fugo to stop crying, because that's a lie, and he doesn't say that it's okay, because it's not. Instead, he just runs his fingers through Fugo's hair, slow and sweet, and rests their foreheads together, his own eyes falling shut as he listens with utmost care to the sound of Fugo's breathing.]
[Fugo doesn't mean to cry for long. But every time he tries to swallow it down again, he's distracted by the soft touch of Giorno's hands on his and it starts all over again. He doesn't even know what exactly he's crying about--(Is it for Bruno and the others, since it's April again? Is it because he misses home? Is it because he feels guilty? Is it because--)--only that he can't stop it on his own. He just has to let it happen, as much as he hates the awful, senseless process of it.
It all works its way out of him eventually. He cries until the feeling of Giorno's hands in his hair feel soothing again and his breathing starts to even out; until his eyes are red, his face is blotchy, and his nose is stuffed. Giorno doesn't move away from him. He stays close, their foreheads pressed together, murmuring soothing nonsense, so-- Fugo can hear the sound of his voice, maybe?]
Okay. [His own voice is small and hoarse with the effort of keeping quiet. Fugo closes his eyes, exhausted at the start of the day, and pulls in a breath.] I'll-- stay.
[Which is what Giorno wants to hear. But there's something else-- something that he's more than a little afraid to put into words. Terrified, honestly; his guts are tied into uneasy, acidic knots by the time he opens his eyes again. Fugo looks at Giorno, tired and worried and a little afraid. And then he shifts, mirroring Giorno's gesture by tentatively resting his hand on Giorno's cheek.]
[It honestly, genuinely doesn't make sense to him for a moment. The words individually have meaning, of course, but the meaning dissolves when they become sentences. What about you, Fugo asks, and he blinks in confusion.]
[Well--what about me?]
[And of course the rest, when it comes, doesn't make any more sense. Why is Fugo worried about him resting? He's fine. Of course he's fine.]
I don't understand. I've been resting.
[No. Of course he hasn't. But he doesn't have the luxury of resting, does he? Of course not.]
You've been resting exactly as much as I have. [This isn't exactly true: Giorno has probably been sleeping less than Fugo has. He won't sleep unless Fugo lays down with him. He's always there to pull him back from his nightmares. And in the morning, Giorno is always awake to drowsily argue with him about when they should get up.] You're worn so thin. Sometimes, I think I can see right through you.
[God, but does it hurt to hear Giorno talk like that. Worth it, he says, as if he can strike out some karmic debt and balance the books by taking himself apart and giving himself away piece by piece. What is he supposed to do? He's no Mista, who can sense the shape of Giorno's heart by instinct; he's no Trish, either, who can expertly adjust Giorno's perspective in a few quick sentences to make him see what's wrong.]
Buccellati, [he says, finally, hating himself for using that name but not knowing how else to to say it.] wouldn't want that. He'd hate this.
[He swallows, voice thick with guilt. His fingers anxiously trace a path along Giorno's hairline.]
[He can't help how shrill his voice goes. Still quiet, still muted, still intimate, but up about an octave. He can't, he can't, he can't handle hearing Buccellati's name. Not like this.]
Buccellati couldn't say the first thing about it! With how much he hid--
[No. No, not with Fugo, not now, not today. Not ever, maybe, this isn't the sort of grief that's helpful to share: how cold Bruno's fingers were, and how long, how fucking long he denied it, until it was too late to do anything, except it was always too late to do anything.]
[He can't speak ill of the dead. He can't put those images, those memories, those feelings into Fugo's head. Cold fingers, stumbling feet, fading sight. So, with some effort, he pushes it all down and away, presses his lips tightly closed. It makes his whole body shake, keeping it down, but if he turns his face away, presses it against Fugo's side, he can do it. He can make this right.]
I'm sorry. You're right. He'd hate this. [Hypocrite.]
[He's so afraid. Because he knew even before he said it, Fugo knew it was the wrong thing; that using Buccellati's name would just tear the hole in Giorno's heart wider, rather than closing it up to help it heal. One instinct tells him to pull away, because shouldn't Giorno be disgusted with him? But another one, newer and feebler, whispers keep him close.
It's that instinct Fugo listens to. Instead of pulling away from Giorno, he curls forward; uses his arms to press Giorno's trembling body close to his own. It's less an embrace and more of an awkward tangle of limbs. But they're close. And Fugo won't let go of him.]
I'm sorry. I know it's not-- [Abruptly, Fugo bites his lip and cuts himself off. Not my place, he thinks. I have no right. (Not when he stayed. Not when he was the one who said all we had to do was look the other way. The fact that he, of all people, survived is a disgrace to Buccellati's memory.) But that wouldn't help. He knows it, Giorno knows it. Saying it won't make any of it better.] I just... I hate it.
[He's quick to clarify, because obviously it's necessary. Exhausting, but necessary.]
I'm angry with him. For being gone. I shouldn't be, but I am. That's just how it is. I'm not angry with you. You didn't kill him.
[Giorno, on the other hand . . . however indirectly, he did. He led Bruno Buccellati, the best man he's ever known, to not one death but two. Besides Diavolo, he's the one who's culpable, because without his intervention, Bruno would still be alive.]
[It's a terrible thing that he's going to ask. But he's going to ask it anyway. He takes a shuddering breath, presses his face close against Fugo's chest, and then looks up again, his gaze steady even if exhausted.]
You can help by staying with me. Don't leave me the way he did. Don't leave your blood on my hands. Stay safe, and stay where I can see and feel you, so I know you're real and you're all right. Please.
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Of when he fucked everything up.]
[Getting up is a process, lately. Because Giorno has to be convinced to let him go. Some days it's easier than others. Okay, fine, he thinks, groggily, acknowledging that today isn't going to be an easy day.]
Giogio, s'morning. Gotta get up. [He can tell because there is more light, warm and sunny and cheerfully pounding on his temples, in the room than there was when he finally passed out. He groggily reaches from around Giorno's shoulder to push at the grit in the corners of his eyes and, for the time being, obediently stops wiggling.] Five minutes. Okay?
[He starts low, Giorno aims high. They'll meet somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen to twenty minutes. They usually do.]
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[Not today, though. Today--]
No.
[Just a flat no. He shakes his head, eyes wide and earnest.]
You need to stay in bed today. You're going to make yourself sick.
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[Days in bed are reserved for being "really" sick, a nebulously charted out condition with a flexible definition. But it basically boils down to this: if he can still move, if he can function even a little, he's not sick enough to spend a day.]
M'not sick.
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[Ugh. His brows draw together, eyes narrowed; then he presses his face down against Fugo's chest, one arm splayed over him firmly. No moving.]
You will be, [he whines against Fugo's shirt, soft and pathetic,] and you were. You fainted in my arms. Fugo! You're not okay.
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I've been sleeping. [Not enough.] I've been eating. [Better than he's been sleeping. But his appetite, along with his nerves, is shot through.] That ... was a very bad day.
[A very bad day after a string of very bad nights of sleep and picking tiredly at his lunch. A very bad day where he pushed and shoved and pulled and threw himself past his own limits until his body simply refused to move the way it should have. He can see the points of Giorno's logic; how A connects to B and stretches out to C, with the end result of you need to rest.]
I'm... doing better. It won't happen again.
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[He bites the inside of his cheek; it feels almost hard enough to bite right through. He doesn't want to say You're doing better, but it's not good enough. That's the worst thing he could think of to say to Fugo, who's so terrified all the time of not being good enough, of being left behind because he's not perfect.]
[But in this case, it's true. And it's not Fugo's fault, exactly, but it's still something Fugo needs to work on. Or Giorno needs to make him. Something. It just can't stay like this.]
It's just--everyone needs to rest sometimes. And you, you don't sleep well usually, so sometimes you have to just take a day--and just rest. It's okay, you should. I want you to. You--
[Ugh, so clumsy. He hates this--and then it just tumbles out, and he can't do anything about it--]
You really scared me.
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But Giorno doesn't actually say that. He pushes forward and says something else entirely. Nothing's wrong, really--(except for how everything is wrong, because it's April again and neither of them know how to break out of this yoke of grief and guilt)--it's just that Giorno wants him to rest. Because everyone needs it. And it's okay to.]
I didn't... I just... [Slowly, the taut muscles in his back and neck ease up. God, what's wrong with him. Didn't he promise? Didn't Giorno step halfway to him?] I want to do my best for you.
[Tired as he is, he doesn't realize how similar his words are to something Giorno told him months and months ago.
I want to be perfect for you.]
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[His fingers curl up, soft and careful against Fugo's jaw. He's so tempted to brush worry away from the corner of Fugo's mouth with his thumb, but he doesn't. He just--]
[Sighs. Cups Fugo's jaw in his palm and closes his eyes, hooking his ankle over Fugo's under the blanket. Stay, stay, stay . . .]
You are perfect for me.
[Later, he won't be sure if he heard the similarity or if it was just--instinct. Because it's true. Fugo does his best. Fugo is perfect for him. What's the difference? In the end, to him, there isn't one.]
[It takes him a long moment to work up the courage (is it courage?) to open his eyes again. But he does, because it's his job to be brave for both of them when he has to be. Instinctively, protectively, possessively, he tightens his grip on Fugo's ankle.]
I'm not angry. I just thought I'd lose you again, Fugo, and I can't. I can't lose you.
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[But, no. If he were dreaming, his head wouldn't ache like this. Giorno's fingers wouldn't feel so warm on his face. Sunlight wouldn't catch in his eyelashes or bring to his attention the faint dusting of faded childhood freckles over Giorno's nose. There would be no sounds of the city slowly starting to wake up filtering through their open window.
This isn't a dream. Giorno really is holding onto him as closely as he possibly can, one arm cinched tightly around his waist and the other curled awkwardly beneath him so Giorno can touch his face. He's even tangled their ankles together, stubbornly pulling Fugo towards him.]
[All of that is already so much, for someone as cold and distant as Fugo can be; who learned how to hold himself up on his own, shoulders straight and knees together, always a few steps out of reach from everyone else. But Giorno doesn't stop there: you are perfect for me he insists. And then, while Fugo is still reeling from that: I can't lose you.]
[He doesn't want to cry. Crying is such a pointless waste of energy, which he has precious little of to begin with. He's held it off for so long. He didn't cry when he first fell through the hole. He didn't cry in Woodhurst; not even when the days where Bruno, Abbacchio, and Narancia all came and ruthlessly passed on by.
(If he was going to cry, why not then? Why not for people who deserve it? Why now? Why over-- nothing? He doesn't understand. He just can't understand why, in the face of what might be the kindest thing someone has ever told him, he's starting to cry.)
Fugo's breath catches. His mouth, then his shoulders, tremble. The corners of his eyes prickle. When he closes them, instead of holding the tears back his eyelashes chase them out instead; the first few roll slowly down his face towards the pillow and Giorno's hand, which feels especially awful in how strange it is. And then he gives up with a great shudder, curling towards Giorno as he pulls him closer with the arm around his shoulders, and cries as quietly as he possibly can.]
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[It's been so long. Fugo's been so tense. The last time he saw Fugo cry, the first and last time, was in the restaurant. Fugo knelt at his feet, kissed his hand, and wept like the world was coming to an end. For him, it really was. For him, everything was ending, soon to start anew--but it's hard to believe in a brand new world when you barely have a grip on the passing of day into night anymore. Giorno understands. He does.]
[This moment has much of the same intimacy that that one did. More, even. They're here together, the two of them, Fugo crying onto the pillow that both of their heads have rested on, in the oddly-shaped bed that they've been curling up in together since they got to Terra Felis, curled up with each other as tightly as they can get. Their connection is no longer so tenuous that Fugo is afraid to touch--or that Giorno is.]
[So he pulls Fugo closer. There's not much closer to get anymore, but he finds a way to close the gap between them. He murmurs half-words and things that don't make sense, filler consonants and cheap vowels to rest the soothing lilt of his voice on. He brushes Fugo's tears away with his thumb until there are too many to push away, but he doesn't tell Fugo to stop crying, because that's a lie, and he doesn't say that it's okay, because it's not. Instead, he just runs his fingers through Fugo's hair, slow and sweet, and rests their foreheads together, his own eyes falling shut as he listens with utmost care to the sound of Fugo's breathing.]
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It all works its way out of him eventually. He cries until the feeling of Giorno's hands in his hair feel soothing again and his breathing starts to even out; until his eyes are red, his face is blotchy, and his nose is stuffed. Giorno doesn't move away from him. He stays close, their foreheads pressed together, murmuring soothing nonsense, so-- Fugo can hear the sound of his voice, maybe?]
Okay. [His own voice is small and hoarse with the effort of keeping quiet. Fugo closes his eyes, exhausted at the start of the day, and pulls in a breath.] I'll-- stay.
[Which is what Giorno wants to hear. But there's something else-- something that he's more than a little afraid to put into words. Terrified, honestly; his guts are tied into uneasy, acidic knots by the time he opens his eyes again. Fugo looks at Giorno, tired and worried and a little afraid. And then he shifts, mirroring Giorno's gesture by tentatively resting his hand on Giorno's cheek.]
But what about you? When are you going to rest?
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[Well--what about me?]
[And of course the rest, when it comes, doesn't make any more sense. Why is Fugo worried about him resting? He's fine. Of course he's fine.]
I don't understand. I've been resting.
[No. Of course he hasn't. But he doesn't have the luxury of resting, does he? Of course not.]
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[He's said that already, hasn't he? He blinks, dry-mouthed.]
Have--I thought I was doing all right.
[Which isn't true, either. Pressing his lips together, he glances down and digs his fingers into the front of Fugo's shirt.]
I have to take care of you. I have to help these people. I have to, if I don't none of it's worth it, don't you see?
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Buccellati, [he says, finally, hating himself for using that name but not knowing how else to to say it.] wouldn't want that. He'd hate this.
[He swallows, voice thick with guilt. His fingers anxiously trace a path along Giorno's hairline.]
You-- aren't. All right. At all. I can tell.
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[He can't help how shrill his voice goes. Still quiet, still muted, still intimate, but up about an octave. He can't, he can't, he can't handle hearing Buccellati's name. Not like this.]
Buccellati couldn't say the first thing about it! With how much he hid--
[No. No, not with Fugo, not now, not today. Not ever, maybe, this isn't the sort of grief that's helpful to share: how cold Bruno's fingers were, and how long, how fucking long he denied it, until it was too late to do anything, except it was always too late to do anything.]
[He can't speak ill of the dead. He can't put those images, those memories, those feelings into Fugo's head. Cold fingers, stumbling feet, fading sight. So, with some effort, he pushes it all down and away, presses his lips tightly closed. It makes his whole body shake, keeping it down, but if he turns his face away, presses it against Fugo's side, he can do it. He can make this right.]
I'm sorry. You're right. He'd hate this. [Hypocrite.]
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It's that instinct Fugo listens to. Instead of pulling away from Giorno, he curls forward; uses his arms to press Giorno's trembling body close to his own. It's less an embrace and more of an awkward tangle of limbs. But they're close. And Fugo won't let go of him.]
I'm sorry. I know it's not-- [Abruptly, Fugo bites his lip and cuts himself off. Not my place, he thinks. I have no right. (Not when he stayed. Not when he was the one who said all we had to do was look the other way. The fact that he, of all people, survived is a disgrace to Buccellati's memory.) But that wouldn't help. He knows it, Giorno knows it. Saying it won't make any of it better.] I just... I hate it.
I hate seeing you hurt and not know how to help.
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[He's quick to clarify, because obviously it's necessary. Exhausting, but necessary.]
I'm angry with him. For being gone. I shouldn't be, but I am. That's just how it is. I'm not angry with you. You didn't kill him.
[Giorno, on the other hand . . . however indirectly, he did. He led Bruno Buccellati, the best man he's ever known, to not one death but two. Besides Diavolo, he's the one who's culpable, because without his intervention, Bruno would still be alive.]
[It's a terrible thing that he's going to ask. But he's going to ask it anyway. He takes a shuddering breath, presses his face close against Fugo's chest, and then looks up again, his gaze steady even if exhausted.]
You can help by staying with me. Don't leave me the way he did. Don't leave your blood on my hands. Stay safe, and stay where I can see and feel you, so I know you're real and you're all right. Please.