[Giorno did not ask him to be cruel. But the question still cuts; still drives a knife in his back, in a soft spot angled up underneath his ribs. Fugo’s expression twists-- and his body twists too, angling away to hide his face from Giorno. There’s no hiding the frantic thump of his heart, though, not from Giorno. No masking the tension knotted up in his back and shoulders.
That’s not fair, is what he first thinks, childish and frustrated and suddenly sick with a sense of failure. That’s not fair.]
[Sometimes, he hates how well Giorno knows him-- can see over and through the walls that have stopped everyone else who has tried to get close to him. Logically, he knows Giorno has the right of it: he doesn't want to lose control and hurt someone. (Except for the part of him that does. Purple Haze isn't gone; it will never really be gone. He just can't reach it, after falling through the mirror.) What he hates is how pointless and futile everything he's done up until now feels. The fact that Giorno, despite it all, is trying to spare his feelings is just salt in the wound.]
I know. [His hands curl tightly around the rim of the kettle. It's heavy. It will need to be washed, but now's probably not the time for it. Unceremoniously, he leaves it to the side of the kitchen door; there's no point in bringing it in to stink up the rest of the kitchen. Without anything to occupy them, his hands clench tightly into fists; his nails bite into his palms.] ... I don't want to talk about this out here.
[It isn't a step. It isn't even half a step. But the closed door between them on the subject of Bonds-- it's been unlocked. Cracked open, if only a little.]
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That’s not fair, is what he first thinks, childish and frustrated and suddenly sick with a sense of failure. That’s not fair.]
[Sometimes, he hates how well Giorno knows him-- can see over and through the walls that have stopped everyone else who has tried to get close to him. Logically, he knows Giorno has the right of it: he doesn't want to lose control and hurt someone. (Except for the part of him that does. Purple Haze isn't gone; it will never really be gone. He just can't reach it, after falling through the mirror.) What he hates is how pointless and futile everything he's done up until now feels. The fact that Giorno, despite it all, is trying to spare his feelings is just salt in the wound.]
I know. [His hands curl tightly around the rim of the kettle. It's heavy. It will need to be washed, but now's probably not the time for it. Unceremoniously, he leaves it to the side of the kitchen door; there's no point in bringing it in to stink up the rest of the kitchen. Without anything to occupy them, his hands clench tightly into fists; his nails bite into his palms.] ... I don't want to talk about this out here.
[It isn't a step. It isn't even half a step. But the closed door between them on the subject of Bonds-- it's been unlocked. Cracked open, if only a little.]