[Something in his heart seizes. The slow and subtle shift of a glacier, dragging its wounded belly over cracked and barren stone. He thinks of whales. Of baleen, calves being pushed up to the surface for their first gasping breath of air. Bright eyes hidden under dark fringe, peeping at him from over the edge of a couch arm, eyes that belonged to someone who learned to keep very still and very quiet.
They have never spoken about that time. Of the week they spent as Haruno and Panni.]
Can I come see you? We don't have to talk about this over the network.
[This conversation is difficult. It's a little easier, for him at least, with the distance of the network between them. But he hates it. The idea of gift-wrapping this knowledge, when it is something so painful that Giorno won't speak of it on his own, and just handing it over to Elias.]
[He's surprised. That's not a strong enough word, really — the question tugs at him like a hook, neither bad nor good but unquestionably unusual. This isn't fun for either of them, not really, and while Giorno would be fine doing this in person at this point, Fugo doesn't like being vulnerable face to face.]
[But.]
[Over the network. After a moment it clicks: Elias. Is — Fugo worried? Even about something this personal? Or is it especially because of something this personal?]
yes. of course. if you're sure that's all right.
[If he's sure that it won't be too much . . . he's always welcome. Even if it's hard.]
[Fugo closes his laptop. He takes a breath, closes his eyes, and breathes.]
[A while later, notably much longer than it ought to have taken Fugo to make the trip from his bedroom down the hall to Giorno's, there's a soft... well, it's not a knock. It's a sort of thud and tap. This is because Fugo, hands full with a tray carrying two steaming mugs and a plate of little shortbread cookies, has used one of his spider legs to carefully knock on Giorno's bedroom door.]
[He's not sure what emotion it is he's feeling, actually. The whole situation feels strange. When he let himself say it over text, he began to drift a little. That was safe to do, since they were only talking on the laptops. But Fugo is coming to see him now, and he's not able to entirely pull himself back. Not yet.]
[So what Fugo sees is a version of Giorno who is marginally, but not significantly, more vague-seeming than his usual self. The way he stands is off, maybe; he doesn't focus quite right. But he does smile at the gesture, looking at the cookies as though he might snag one off of the plate. It's too much effort in the end, but he does think about it.]
Come in. Here, you can just set that on the bed.
[Because that's where Giorno plans to sit, and if Fugo knows what's good for him he'll sit there too. Roots curling in loose spirals, he climbs up into his usual spot, the small of his back pressed against his headboard, as all of his pillows have been shoved aside.]
[Fugo follows Giorno, bare feet quiet and spider feet clicking on the floor as he pads along behind him. He can't help but watch the way Giorno moves, the shapes his roots make as he shifts along the floor. Dozens-- hundreds-- of tiny vibrations echo through the floor with each step, shivering up through each of his four legs to his shoulders.]
Thank you.
[His voice is quiet, subdued. He isn't sure what to do with himself, or how to hold himself, or where to put himself. He places the tray on the bed as requested, within easy reach of Giorno's vines. And then, after a moment of thought he spends biting the inside of his cheek, Fugo snags one of the mugs and holds it between his palms. He stretches two of his longer legs over the other side of the bed and hauls himself up and over, winding up in a mirror of Giorno's position at the foot of the bed.]
Sorry I took so long. I-- made some tea. [Ginger tea. But that should be obvious, from the smell.] ... yours has extra sugar.
[It's good when Fugo sits on the bed with him. It's good that he can see Fugo's face. It's good that Fugo is here, he realizes; it calms him, it soothes him, it makes him feel safer. This is better than talking over the network for more reasons than just Elias.]
[Fugo made some tea. Giorno smiles, fond and faintly amused — and a bit more present, as though the warmth of this gesture has anchored him more in reality.] I see that. Thank you. Don't apologize.
[Not for extra sugar, certainly. One of his vines does, in fact, slither out to wrap around the other mug's handle; the heat of it, though, is best held between his hands, which is where the mug is ultimately deposited. He'll go for the cookies, too. Just not yet. Best to drink this while it's hot.]
[It's quiet for a moment, then. Something that feels like peace falls for a while. The rustle of leaves breaks it as Giorno adjusts, one leg crossing over the other at the ankles.]
. . . Are you upset? [A beat, then clarification:] That I brought it up, that is. We don't have to talk about that.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
< Eb7#9 >
They have never spoken about that time. Of the week they spent as Haruno and Panni.]
Can I come see you? We don't have to talk about this over the network.
[This conversation is difficult. It's a little easier, for him at least, with the distance of the network between them. But he hates it. The idea of gift-wrapping this knowledge, when it is something so painful that Giorno won't speak of it on his own, and just handing it over to Elias.]
<harmonia>
[But.]
[Over the network. After a moment it clicks: Elias. Is — Fugo worried? Even about something this personal? Or is it especially because of something this personal?]
yes. of course. if you're sure that's all right.
[If he's sure that it won't be too much . . . he's always welcome. Even if it's hard.]
< Eb7#9 > --> action
I'm on my way.
[Fugo closes his laptop. He takes a breath, closes his eyes, and breathes.]
[A while later, notably much longer than it ought to have taken Fugo to make the trip from his bedroom down the hall to Giorno's, there's a soft... well, it's not a knock. It's a sort of thud and tap. This is because Fugo, hands full with a tray carrying two steaming mugs and a plate of little shortbread cookies, has used one of his spider legs to carefully knock on Giorno's bedroom door.]
Giogio? It's Fugo.
cw dissociation
[He's not sure what emotion it is he's feeling, actually. The whole situation feels strange. When he let himself say it over text, he began to drift a little. That was safe to do, since they were only talking on the laptops. But Fugo is coming to see him now, and he's not able to entirely pull himself back. Not yet.]
[So what Fugo sees is a version of Giorno who is marginally, but not significantly, more vague-seeming than his usual self. The way he stands is off, maybe; he doesn't focus quite right. But he does smile at the gesture, looking at the cookies as though he might snag one off of the plate. It's too much effort in the end, but he does think about it.]
Come in. Here, you can just set that on the bed.
[Because that's where Giorno plans to sit, and if Fugo knows what's good for him he'll sit there too. Roots curling in loose spirals, he climbs up into his usual spot, the small of his back pressed against his headboard, as all of his pillows have been shoved aside.]
no subject
Thank you.
[His voice is quiet, subdued. He isn't sure what to do with himself, or how to hold himself, or where to put himself. He places the tray on the bed as requested, within easy reach of Giorno's vines. And then, after a moment of thought he spends biting the inside of his cheek, Fugo snags one of the mugs and holds it between his palms. He stretches two of his longer legs over the other side of the bed and hauls himself up and over, winding up in a mirror of Giorno's position at the foot of the bed.]
Sorry I took so long. I-- made some tea. [Ginger tea. But that should be obvious, from the smell.] ... yours has extra sugar.
no subject
[Fugo made some tea. Giorno smiles, fond and faintly amused — and a bit more present, as though the warmth of this gesture has anchored him more in reality.] I see that. Thank you. Don't apologize.
[Not for extra sugar, certainly. One of his vines does, in fact, slither out to wrap around the other mug's handle; the heat of it, though, is best held between his hands, which is where the mug is ultimately deposited. He'll go for the cookies, too. Just not yet. Best to drink this while it's hot.]
[It's quiet for a moment, then. Something that feels like peace falls for a while. The rustle of leaves breaks it as Giorno adjusts, one leg crossing over the other at the ankles.]
. . . Are you upset? [A beat, then clarification:] That I brought it up, that is. We don't have to talk about that.