[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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[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.