[And he's sure they watered it down, too. What Fugo says next actually surprises him. He can tell what Fugo is tiptoeing around: that they at least implied, if not stated explicitly, that before their transformation is complete, all vampires must die.]
[He's almost impressed with Miss Nessie, although he'd honestly rather die twice than say it in his out loud voice. Instead, cold fingers tighten reflexively on Fugo's sleeve, as though burying them in fabric will warm them somehow. Even though he knows better.]
That's true. Vampires are undead. [He wants to stick his hands up Fugo's sleeves. He wants to be home already. He wants to lie down. He wants to go home.] I'm not undead yet. I . . .
[Someone else's blood feels like it's curdling in his stomach. He keeps his eyes forward, gaze even and cool. He is not afraid, just like he hasn't been afraid, to verbalize this fact.]
[Giorno’s grip, Fugo notices, is tight on his arm. Painfully so. He doesn’t think Giorno realizes, or otherwise he would have stopped. It runs contrary to the calm way he speaks and his serene expression, or the way he toys with the sleeve of his borrowed coat. Fugo doesn't mention this; it doesn't bother him, not really, even if it is confusing. He's much more preoccupied with the much more upsetting and overwhelming reality of Giorno's condition.
Not undead. Yet. Soon, though. He's been here, alone from the rest of them, long enough that this transformation is nearing its final stages. He will die. He will still be himself, but he'll-- die. And there's a part of him that, stubbornly and childish, just want to scream at the thought. It's not fair. It's not right. It shouldn't be this way.]
Giorno. When that time comes-- [Here, he falters. Not because he doesn’t mean what he’s about to say, but because it’s gutwrenching just thinking about it. He finds himself caught on his words and in his steps, paralyzed by-- what? Not fear. Giorno’s death is not a possibility, but an inevitability of their new reality. His jaw clenches and his throat works, caught around a strange knot of emotion too tight to unravel.] If you would have me. There is nothing that could keep me from your side.
[He’ll stay. However long it takes for Giorno to die and come back-- he’ll stay. As long as Giorno wants him there, Fugo will be by his side.]
[At the very least, it's confirmation that Giorno's memory hasn't failed him. Fugo is Fugo, no matter where they are. When he's willing to speak from his soul (body, mind, soul), he does so with an earnestness, an honesty, that's unparalleled. People say Giorno has a silver tongue. They don't even know.]
[His eyes are wide when he turns to look at Fugo now — when his gaze is torn from its steely forward glare to meet the eyes of someone who, regardless of how thoroughly he was manipulated to get there, is at his side now. Will not be torn from his side now.]
[They aren't so far from home. Still, it feels important — feels imperative — to take Fugo by the shoulders and draw him under the eaves of some old and darkened house. To pull him close, hold him with cold hands cupping his cheeks, the pads of his fingers taking stock of his realness, of the fact that he is so, so alive, so very present. Searching eyes gone red with high emotion catch Fugo's in the dark and hold them, staring, suddenly so starkly lonely. Fucking desperate.]
[He's going to say something dignified, or pithy, or casual, or something. Instead, softly:] Do you promise?
[Truthfully, Fugo doesn't like to be touched-- let alone being bodily grabbed and pulled around. It's uncomfortable and strange, even from Giorno. In a way they're both lucky that Giorno is so quick and so strong; he just doesn't have the time to react beyond flinching and going tense, body instinctively ready to fight.
But it's just Giorno. Giorno, whose cold hands have come up to hold his face; whose grip, which was painfully tight just a moment before, is so careful. His expression is... impossible to put into words. Icy. Determined. Wide-eyed and--]
[Pained, he thinks. He couldn't say way, except there is a familiar hollow, hungry look in Giorno's eyes.]
I promise. [Once caught in the gravity of Giorno's blood-red stare, Fugo does not look away. He allows himself to be pulled into it. He remembers the vow he made: body, heart, soul. I am yours. He doesn't flinch away from it.] I am yours, Giogio.
[There is only one path-- one future-- for him and it is to walk side-by-side with Giorno. There is nothing else.]
[What Giorno asks, it's too casual. There are different words, better words, to use in reaffirming Fugo's oath. Just because he was caught off-guard, just because he was relieved, isn't an excuse for letting himself be so vulnerable. For casting it as a question rather than as a request.]
[Do you promise? Just because he's so desperate not to be alone when the time comes, and because he is too prideful to ask any of the other people he knows, even the ones who've offered. Just because he doesn't want to share his death with anyone who hasn't lost the way that he has. Just because he missed Fugo so terribly. He asked it like a frightened child, when he should know better than anyone that frightened children get what they can scrape up and nothing more.]
[And yet.]
[When Fugo responds, it's even. Assured, as Fugo only ever is in moments like this: one-on-one, when the path laid out forward is clear to him. When there is only one path, no choices. The only path Fugo sees is one in which he is Giorno's. The fork in Giorno's mind's eye, the one where he walks away, or at the very least turns his back — to Fugo, it doesn't exist.]
[I am yours, Giogio. It means that, even here, even like this, Fugo will follow his lead. Fugo will be his, just as he vowed to be back in Napoli. Monster or no, Fugo sees him as he is: Don Giovanna, just in another skin.]
[Something lets go in his posture, like one massive full-body sigh. He lets go of Fugo's face and, closing his eyes, leans in and wraps his arms loosely around Fugo's waist, rests his chin on his shoulder.]
Thank you. [Murmured, almost breathless in the crisp air.] I . . . we can go soon. Can I just — rest, for a second?
[He doesn't know what to do. He's been unequipped to deal with this conversation more or less from the beginning, but Fugo finds himself caught off guard-- again-- when Giorno folds into him. This can't be comfortable, is Fugo's first awkward, not-quite-panicked thought. My shoulder is so bony. But Giorno doesn't seem to mind. His arms form a loose circle around Fugo's waist and he sighs, settling in.]
You're-- welcome? [He doesn't understand, really, what Giorno is thanking him for. He doesn't know what to say in return, or what to do. People don't just-- lean on him, or hold him. But here Giorno is. Relieved to see him. Grateful to hear his promise again.] It's fine. Take your time.
[Fugo stands, stiff and unmoving, for a long moment. He considers his options; weighs various courses of action. In the end, he pushes his arms underneath Giorno's to awkwardly return his embrace.]
[Truth be told, even if Fugo shoved him off, he'd be slow to move. The adrenaline of the evening has left him all in a rush. He's exhausted now, from his fingernails to his marrow, and he can tell it's going to be a bad night, physically and maybe emotionally too. The latter he can weather. The former—]
[If he were alone, he'd reiterate that. That he could weather any kind of pain. But he can lean on Fugo; that's what Fugo's told him, not in so many words. So he does.]
[There's a pleased mmhm when Fugo tentatively hugs him back, and he curls in a little closer at the touch, but otherwise he doesn't move much until he's caught his breath. For the moment, at least. After a minute or two, he sighs and disentangles himself from Fugo, tipping his chin up to look him in the eye.]
Thank you. Sorry, I get tired.
[Which is strangely freeing to say. Hesitantly, he offers Fugo his arm.]
[Little by little, Fugo becomes less tense. He doesn't completely relax-- not out on the dark streets of a city he doesn't know, not when Giorno needs to rest. But as he grows used to Giorno's weight on his shoulder and the feeling of his arms around his waist, listening to the sound of his breathing become slow and even, he becomes less stiff and wooden underneath him. This is-- a hug. Giorno has embraced him. Fugo has returned the gesture. It's not bad.
When Giorno is ready to let him go and stand on his own again, their eyes meet. Giorno's eyes aren't red anymore, but they aren't quite blue again either. They're a strange in-between color, difficult to identify in the dark.]
It's alright. You surprised me, but I didn't mind. [Oh, this time-- Fugo blinks, owlish and puzzled by the reversal, before reaching to take Giorno's arm. It's usually the other way around. Though he wouldn't walk this way with anyone else, he doesn't even think twice about the gesture; in the short time he's come back to Passione, he's already started to normalize Giorno's habit of taking possession of his arm.] I'm ready.
[Fugo rolls with it. That makes him smile, a fond, tired expression sent sideways in the dark before they begin walking again. He folds Fugo's hand lightly between his elbow and his side — to warm his fingers, hopefully.]
I wanted to hug you when I saw you, [he admits.] But I didn't know if I should.
[Apparently, desperation breeds permission, at least in Giorno's head. He's quiet for a moment or two; thinks about saying thank you again, because he hasn't left the feeling of gratitude behind, because it's still dogging him. But he doesn't.]
[Instead:]
I live with two other people. They'll be asleep now, neither of them are entirely nocturnal, and I would have seen them at the Coven if they were out. Would it be all right if I told you about them before we get back? I don't want you to be surprised.
You did? [Fugo is... puzzled. He's not sure why Giorno would want to hug him just by seeing him or why the question of if he "should" is a reason to hold back.] You don't need to worry about that. If it's you, I don't mind.
[It's strange to be held. But if Giorno is the one who wants to, he can deal with it. And that, as far as he's concerned, is that. He immediately refocuses his attention on the matter of Giorno's roommates. Giorno kept him close in Napoli; why would that be different here?]
Yes, that would be fine. Any information you are willing to share would be appreciated. [And then, before he forgets--] I'll adjust my schedule to better match yours.
[That, too, seems like a simple decision. After all, he was working nights in Milano; Aefenglom is a big enough city that it must have some sort of evening or night work for the people who live here, especially given its Monster populations.]
[That's . . . interesting. Something to think about. That Fugo wouldn't mind being hugged — at any time, apparently. Curious and unexpected. He hums, marking it in his memory, even if he has no idea how he feels about it at the moment other than faintly positive.]
[There's a laundry list of facts he wants to share about his housemates, but not before Fugo adds something that makes him jerk his head around in displeased surprise.]
What? Like hell you will!
[Well, that's vehement.]
Don't be ridiculous. It's not healthy. Our waking hours will overlap fine, so go to sleep at night. [How is this a conversation he's even having right now?]
[At Giorno's side, Fugo tenses. Under most circumstances, this is the point where he'd be willing to fold-- but not about this. He's prepared to be stubborn and, failing official permission, slowly adjust his schedule so it matches up anyway.]
I worked nights in Milano, I'll find a way to work nights here. I don't sleep well at night anyway, so it won't be a problem.
[It's tempting to just snap. What do you know about it? is what he'd like to ask, except that's not fair at all. Giorno would know plenty at this point.]
It's something that I'm used to. Strategically speaking, it makes better sense for us to try align our schedules for as much overlap as possible. If you're concerned about my Vitamin D intake, there are ways to supplement it.
[Firmly:] It won't kill me to wake up in the late afternoon rather than the morning.
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I'm sure they did.
[And he's sure they watered it down, too. What Fugo says next actually surprises him. He can tell what Fugo is tiptoeing around: that they at least implied, if not stated explicitly, that before their transformation is complete, all vampires must die.]
[He's almost impressed with Miss Nessie, although he'd honestly rather die twice than say it in his out loud voice. Instead, cold fingers tighten reflexively on Fugo's sleeve, as though burying them in fabric will warm them somehow. Even though he knows better.]
That's true. Vampires are undead. [He wants to stick his hands up Fugo's sleeves. He wants to be home already. He wants to lie down. He wants to go home.] I'm not undead yet. I . . .
[Someone else's blood feels like it's curdling in his stomach. He keeps his eyes forward, gaze even and cool. He is not afraid, just like he hasn't been afraid, to verbalize this fact.]
I imagine I'll die soon. And then I'll come back.
no subject
Not undead. Yet. Soon, though. He's been here, alone from the rest of them, long enough that this transformation is nearing its final stages. He will die. He will still be himself, but he'll-- die. And there's a part of him that, stubbornly and childish, just want to scream at the thought. It's not fair. It's not right. It shouldn't be this way.]
Giorno. When that time comes-- [Here, he falters. Not because he doesn’t mean what he’s about to say, but because it’s gutwrenching just thinking about it. He finds himself caught on his words and in his steps, paralyzed by-- what? Not fear. Giorno’s death is not a possibility, but an inevitability of their new reality. His jaw clenches and his throat works, caught around a strange knot of emotion too tight to unravel.] If you would have me. There is nothing that could keep me from your side.
[He’ll stay. However long it takes for Giorno to die and come back-- he’ll stay. As long as Giorno wants him there, Fugo will be by his side.]
no subject
[At the very least, it's confirmation that Giorno's memory hasn't failed him. Fugo is Fugo, no matter where they are. When he's willing to speak from his soul (body, mind, soul), he does so with an earnestness, an honesty, that's unparalleled. People say Giorno has a silver tongue. They don't even know.]
[His eyes are wide when he turns to look at Fugo now — when his gaze is torn from its steely forward glare to meet the eyes of someone who, regardless of how thoroughly he was manipulated to get there, is at his side now. Will not be torn from his side now.]
[They aren't so far from home. Still, it feels important — feels imperative — to take Fugo by the shoulders and draw him under the eaves of some old and darkened house. To pull him close, hold him with cold hands cupping his cheeks, the pads of his fingers taking stock of his realness, of the fact that he is so, so alive, so very present. Searching eyes gone red with high emotion catch Fugo's in the dark and hold them, staring, suddenly so starkly lonely. Fucking desperate.]
[He's going to say something dignified, or pithy, or casual, or something. Instead, softly:] Do you promise?
no subject
But it's just Giorno. Giorno, whose cold hands have come up to hold his face; whose grip, which was painfully tight just a moment before, is so careful. His expression is... impossible to put into words. Icy. Determined. Wide-eyed and--]
[Pained, he thinks. He couldn't say way, except there is a familiar hollow, hungry look in Giorno's eyes.]
I promise. [Once caught in the gravity of Giorno's blood-red stare, Fugo does not look away. He allows himself to be pulled into it. He remembers the vow he made: body, heart, soul. I am yours. He doesn't flinch away from it.] I am yours, Giogio.
[There is only one path-- one future-- for him and it is to walk side-by-side with Giorno. There is nothing else.]
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[Do you promise? Just because he's so desperate not to be alone when the time comes, and because he is too prideful to ask any of the other people he knows, even the ones who've offered. Just because he doesn't want to share his death with anyone who hasn't lost the way that he has. Just because he missed Fugo so terribly. He asked it like a frightened child, when he should know better than anyone that frightened children get what they can scrape up and nothing more.]
[And yet.]
[When Fugo responds, it's even. Assured, as Fugo only ever is in moments like this: one-on-one, when the path laid out forward is clear to him. When there is only one path, no choices. The only path Fugo sees is one in which he is Giorno's. The fork in Giorno's mind's eye, the one where he walks away, or at the very least turns his back — to Fugo, it doesn't exist.]
[I am yours, Giogio. It means that, even here, even like this, Fugo will follow his lead. Fugo will be his, just as he vowed to be back in Napoli. Monster or no, Fugo sees him as he is: Don Giovanna, just in another skin.]
[Something lets go in his posture, like one massive full-body sigh. He lets go of Fugo's face and, closing his eyes, leans in and wraps his arms loosely around Fugo's waist, rests his chin on his shoulder.]
Thank you. [Murmured, almost breathless in the crisp air.] I . . . we can go soon. Can I just — rest, for a second?
no subject
You're-- welcome? [He doesn't understand, really, what Giorno is thanking him for. He doesn't know what to say in return, or what to do. People don't just-- lean on him, or hold him. But here Giorno is. Relieved to see him. Grateful to hear his promise again.] It's fine. Take your time.
[Fugo stands, stiff and unmoving, for a long moment. He considers his options; weighs various courses of action. In the end, he pushes his arms underneath Giorno's to awkwardly return his embrace.]
... like this?
no subject
[If he were alone, he'd reiterate that. That he could weather any kind of pain. But he can lean on Fugo; that's what Fugo's told him, not in so many words. So he does.]
[There's a pleased mmhm when Fugo tentatively hugs him back, and he curls in a little closer at the touch, but otherwise he doesn't move much until he's caught his breath. For the moment, at least. After a minute or two, he sighs and disentangles himself from Fugo, tipping his chin up to look him in the eye.]
Thank you. Sorry, I get tired.
[Which is strangely freeing to say. Hesitantly, he offers Fugo his arm.]
I'd like to get inside. Are you ready?
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When Giorno is ready to let him go and stand on his own again, their eyes meet. Giorno's eyes aren't red anymore, but they aren't quite blue again either. They're a strange in-between color, difficult to identify in the dark.]
It's alright. You surprised me, but I didn't mind. [Oh, this time-- Fugo blinks, owlish and puzzled by the reversal, before reaching to take Giorno's arm. It's usually the other way around. Though he wouldn't walk this way with anyone else, he doesn't even think twice about the gesture; in the short time he's come back to Passione, he's already started to normalize Giorno's habit of taking possession of his arm.] I'm ready.
no subject
I wanted to hug you when I saw you, [he admits.] But I didn't know if I should.
[Apparently, desperation breeds permission, at least in Giorno's head. He's quiet for a moment or two; thinks about saying thank you again, because he hasn't left the feeling of gratitude behind, because it's still dogging him. But he doesn't.]
[Instead:]
I live with two other people. They'll be asleep now, neither of them are entirely nocturnal, and I would have seen them at the Coven if they were out. Would it be all right if I told you about them before we get back? I don't want you to be surprised.
no subject
[It's strange to be held. But if Giorno is the one who wants to, he can deal with it. And that, as far as he's concerned, is that. He immediately refocuses his attention on the matter of Giorno's roommates. Giorno kept him close in Napoli; why would that be different here?]
Yes, that would be fine. Any information you are willing to share would be appreciated. [And then, before he forgets--] I'll adjust my schedule to better match yours.
[That, too, seems like a simple decision. After all, he was working nights in Milano; Aefenglom is a big enough city that it must have some sort of evening or night work for the people who live here, especially given its Monster populations.]
no subject
[There's a laundry list of facts he wants to share about his housemates, but not before Fugo adds something that makes him jerk his head around in displeased surprise.]
What? Like hell you will!
[Well, that's vehement.]
Don't be ridiculous. It's not healthy. Our waking hours will overlap fine, so go to sleep at night. [How is this a conversation he's even having right now?]
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I worked nights in Milano, I'll find a way to work nights here. I don't sleep well at night anyway, so it won't be a problem.
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[Why are you like this, is the clear undercurrent here.]
There's no need, Fugo. There's absolutely no need. I won't have you making yourself sick just to indulge me.
[Which. Has to be why he's offering, right? What other reason could there possibly be?]
no subject
It's something that I'm used to. Strategically speaking, it makes better sense for us to try align our schedules for as much overlap as possible. If you're concerned about my Vitamin D intake, there are ways to supplement it.
[Firmly:] It won't kill me to wake up in the late afternoon rather than the morning.