digiorno | ic inbox ( ǣfenglōm )

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"buongiorno! sorry i missed you; i'll
happily get back to you as soon
as i'm done with whatever business
i'm on. leave a message!"

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[The way Fugo holds himself is like someone trying to keep from accidentally setting off a bomb. It's depressing, given that Giorno has the insider knowledge that in this scenario, Fugo is the bomb, at least in his own estimation. And with that same insider knowledge, he isn't surprised by the answer that comes. More surprised by the lack of vehemence. By how strongly Fugo is tamping his own self-loathing down.]

I can't blame you for that. I didn't like the idea, either. It's still sometimes uncomfortable.

[But . . . don't like is very gentle phrasing for the way Fugo is holding himself at arms' length from even the concept of Bonding. He tips his head slightly to one side, thoughtful.]

What are you worried will happen?

[Flatly:] There's nothing hypothetical about it.

[Giorno doesn't know. But maybe he can guess at it; he's seen glimpses of what Fugo's really like, in flashes of his violent temper and the twisted nature of his Stand. As things are now, he can navigate life from behind a mask of normalcy. He can go through the motions just by putting one foot in front of the next and allowing inertia to do the rest of the work. But with a Bond, there will be no hiding. There will be at least one person who can see beyond his affectations of personhood; who will know that underneath a paper-thin skin, he's rotted out from within.

And what then? Fugo can see only two paths, though both lead to the same inevitable destination. Either the Bond will be quickly severed, because his mind disgusting and burdensome, or his partner will maintain for a while out of pity until they eventually can't come to stand him.]

If I form a Bond with someone-- [He pauses, mouth twisting, and then forces it out:] If I form a Bond with you, you will see me.

[Hasn't Giorno already done enough for him. Forgiven enough. It would have been easier-- simpler, better-- to have him killed to protect his secrets, but Giorno let him live. Brought him back. Offered him a place at his side and when Fugo, too heavy and exhausted to move forward on his own, couldn't step forward to reach him, stepped halfway to him. He's only made it this far by clinging to Giorno's hand. This is it. There are no more chances for him. A Bond doesn't feel like hope. To Fugo, it's a death sentence.]

[Ah. The whisper of resignation, of bitter relief at a valve loosed, steam expelled. Quietly, subtly, he sighs through his nose. There it is.]

[He can only imagine what it's like behind Fugo's eyes, to be looking out at the world as someone who hates Fugo the way Fugo hates himself. He can guess at it, certainly. It isn't as subtle anymore as it once was — because, of course, he cheated. Because he did research and learned more and finally, finally the broken bits and pieces of Fugo's harlequin Stand started to fall into place.]

[Purple Haze's mouth is sewn shut because Fugo has been silenced, and silences himself. Purple Haze is angry because Fugo is angry. Purple Haze is anxious, and violent, and afraid, because Fugo is all of these things. Purple Haze is out of control because—]

[Fugo thinks: Because I am out of control.]

[Giorno thinks: Because you control yourself too tightly.]

[His hands fall loose at his sides, fingers open, palms marked with half-moons that almost break the skin.]

But I want to see you, Fugo.

[His voice is soft, helpless. Not quite hopeless, but close. He's trying to believe in an eventuality where Fugo will believe him, but it seems so improbable.]

I've always wanted to see you.

[Giorno wants to see him. Giorno... wants to see him. Has always wanted to see him.]

[Fugo stares. He doesn't blink. He barely breathes. The words sink in slowly, but they don't completely register. They're just so unbelievable. He doesn't-- can't focus on them. Instead, his expression to crack at the glimpse he gets of Giorno's palms; at this distance, all he can see is the line of red marks. Is he bleeding? Was he clenching his fists behind his back? Has he hurt himself?]

Giogio, your hands. [He blinks, quickly, then shakes his head; his hair goes flying, this way and that. Frazzled, he runs his hands through it and tries to get it out of his face.] You... want to see me.

[His first thought is this: how? And his second: why? Knowing what he does. Having seen his Stand-- having survived him. How can Giorno say that. Why would he still want to?]

[His hands?]

[Startled, he looks down at them, at his pale knuckles and perfectly-groomed nails. Turns them over and blinks down at the marks left behind. He did that. Is that what Fugo's worried about? That little thing?]

[He lets his hands fall to his sides again, then folds them one over the other, clasped over his stomach. It doesn't matter.]

Of course I want to see you. [Of course. It hurts, how foreign the concept is to Fugo, how clear it is in his face that he doesn't understand. That stare, that bottomless confusion, that hurts. Of course he wants to see what's behind the cracked walls that Fugo puts up.]

[And speaking of cracking — his fingers begin to toy nervously with the cuff of the opposite sleeve. Brows draw together. This is progress, but — what the hell does he do if Fugo says no?]

We're friends. [No. That's . . . not right. That doesn't explain it. His expression goes tight with holding back a frustrated pout. Why is this so difficult to articulate?] You're one of the most important people in the world, in any world, to me. I want to see you. I wish you'd let me. I'm not afraid, and I won't walk away from you. Not ever.

[Rationally speaking, they aren't far apart in terms of physical distance. Giorno stands just a few steps away, weight balanced uncomfortably against his dresser, fidgeting with his sleeve cuffs. But it feels enormous, somehow; nearly insurmountable. He just doesn't understand. Bits and pieces of what Giorno says make sense to him, but they come together to form an overwhelming, bewildering whole.]

[Giorno says they are friends. Which-- ... they are? They are friends, but their relationship is both more and less complicated than that. But how can he be that important to Giorno? They've... the truth is, they've known each other longer here. In another world, far removed from the one they know. In Giorno's story, he is the traitor; the one who turned his back on the ideals he fought for and their friends died for. Giorno's faith in him makes no sense. No matter how many times he has turned it over in his head since that morning in Sardinia, he just doesn't understand it.]

[He just-- he can't--]

[Abruptly, Fugo presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a great, heaving breath. It's pointless, he thinks, to run in circles like this. He doesn't understand. He didn't understand back then either, did he. When his hands fall, his complexion is red and blotchy; he still seems far away, but closer than what he was. He pushes himself up to his feet, lurching forward before he can think better of it.]

Let me see. [He holds his own hands out, palms up. His expression is an odd mix of things-- worried, upset, uncertain. He doesn't know what to do or say to move forward. But, maybe-- it will be easier to figure out, without this distance between them.] Please.

[Fugo's eyes are bottomless. Really bottomless, a portal to another place and time entirely, an implacable cenote of grief. No matter how much love is poured into him, he cannot believe it. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.]

[It's stupid, Giorno thinks, to keep harping on how much this hurts, even in his own mind. No one had this experience with him, with his own stubbornness and resistance to Bonding. He initiated his first Bond for — debatably — mutually beneficial reasons. They had both hit a point of no return. But here and now, he is relatively stable with Zelda's help, Zelda's presence in his mind. Here and now, Fugo is the loose end, drifting off in the currents of magic and stubbornly refusing a life preserver.]

[It hurts. But he needs to stop caring about how much it hurts. How much it feels like rejection, over and over again, when he knows logically why Fugo doesn't want this. Why it's hard for Fugo, too. His own feelings shouldn't be part of this equation.]

[But then Fugo stands.]

[His breath catches, although he doesn't realize it right away, too hyperfocused on the jerkiness of the motion, the uneven blotchiness of frustration-confusion-overexertion on Fugo's face. On Fugo's hands, outstretched between them.]

[Let me see. Instinct says no. But—]

[I want to see you. Please.]

[Shoulders back and tense, he's frozen for a moment, heart kicking rabbit-like against the inside of his ribs. And then he moves, no, surges forward, crossing the space between them gracelessly to place his cold hands atop Fugo's outstretched palms, fingers curling to rest against the sharp bones of his wrist.]

[Like this, he can feel Fugo's pulse, the echoing jump of his heart. They don't quite match up. That's fine, he thinks, eyes wide and clear as he lets Fugo see. They don't have to fit perfectly, do they?]

[If time felt stretched out before, each moment taut and over extended, now it snaps back into place between one sharp, stuttering moment and the next. Giorno stares at him, unmoving and uncomfortable, and then suddenly he is here. Clumsy as they are, they have still somehow managed to meet in the middle.]

[Giorno's hands in his are cold. (They always are, these days.) His palms are clammy and his fingers are twitchy. Giorno's hands, resting in his, are heavy. He isn't holding himself back. He's trusted Fugo with their weight. And when Fugo gently turns them over, he doesn't resist.. Doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. Giorno allows himself to be seen.

There are four marks on each of Giorno's palms, left behind from fists clenched too tightly. He didn't break the skin. It probably doesn't even hurt that much. But-- that's unlucky, isn't it? Mista would say so, if he saw it. Fugo, when he looks at the not-quite-cuts on Giorno's hands, realizes this:

If we do this-- I will see him, too.]

I... don't understand. Why you would want to. [Fugo looks up. When he meets Giorno's eyes, it's like looking in a mirror. He sees the same pain, the same frustration, the same anxiety. His heart is beating painfully fast; so is Giorno's.] ... but I will believe you.

[Not can: will. Belief is not about can or cannot. It's a choice. And a difficult one for him, given what he understands about himself and knows about the world. But it's what he has decided. It's the only way forward. If he lets himself doubt, it will eat away at everything he wants to hold onto until there is nothing left.]

[Truthfully, as thoroughly as he's absorbed Mista's doctrine of numbers, he can't remember it right now. It's one of those things that he clings to in moments of crisis, of self-doubt, as a hook to hang his fears and his failures upon.]

[This isn't a crisis. Not anymore. He has no doubt at all — not even doubt in himself, strange as it is, because suddenly everything is falling into place. Crooked, sideways, not-perfectly-aligned place. And that's okay. They don't have to match up perfectly. That's what he told himself, and that seems to be the truth.]

[Fugo will believe him. Not can, will. Belief is a choice that Fugo is making for him right now, to trust in him and put his whole heart in his hands. At the same time, he will make Fugo's warm long-fingered hands the vessel for his own heart. They'll be even, in a way, but that doesn't make it any less dangerous for either of them. This isn't even close to being a quid pro quo arrangement. This is . . .]

Thank you.

[His voice is quiet. Soft and almost pained with all the feeling he's still holding back, despite everything, because it feels as though pouring more emotion into this moment might fill it overfull, shatter it into a billion pieces that neither of them would have any hope of gluing back together.]

[They would try, though, he thinks. Together, they would at the very least make an effort.]

Thank you, Fugo. That's all I want. The rest of it is— [Carefully, slowly, watching Fugo's face the whole time, he shifts their hands so his fingers twine with Fugo's. So they're not so easy to separate from one another.] It's up to you. In your own time.

[In his own time. Giorno doesn't have to give him that. Now that they've made it to this point, if Giorno said come, let's take care of it now he would listen and follow without complaint or a second thought. The rest of it is up to you, Giorno promises instead, winding their fingers together.

He doesn't understand that, either. It falls into the blurry middle ground of their relationship, somewhere between his place as Giorno's follower and his friend. (You're one of the most important people in the world, in any world, to me. How can he just say that, so simply and so honestly? If it's true, why on earth would Giorno feel that way about him? It's completely backwards. It doesn't feel real.) And despite his own desire to stand on his own, something about what he sees reflected in Giorno's eyes is too much to look at. At least for now. At least in this moment. That is how he finds himself sagging forward, resting his forehead on Giorno's shoulder. His back is tight and tense; he's ready to pull himself back in an instant.]

Sorry. I just-- [He takes a deep breath, fingers tightening around Giorno's knuckles. When he exhales, he shudders.] I need a moment.

[To calm down, though he still doesn't understand why he's so upset or even what it is he's feeling. All he knows is that it's something like pain, sharp and bright and blinding, like being caught out in a spotlight on a stage. Ah. That's it, isn't it? This is the pain of being seen. Of letting Giorno get a glimpse of the festering poison in him that gave birth to Purple Haze.]

[The way Fugo collapses onto him—]

[It's a relief. All in a rush, Giorno recognizes his own tension, registers it, takes it in and allows it out again, because everything he was worried about is no longer relevant in this moment. His shoulders loosen up and relax, iron spine going flexible and organic again. As Fugo sags forward, he pulls one hand carefully but instinctively out of Fugo's grip to wrap around his mid-back, to steady him — to hold him.]

[That's what he wanted in the first place. He just wants to hold Fugo. To protect him, if he can, but if not, then just to steady him. That's enough. That's all he's asking for.]

[Fingers clenching tight in the back of Fugo's shirt, he squeezes equally tightly to the hand still clasped in his, nodding shaky and overeager as he buries his face in Fugo's shoulder.]

As many as you need.

[Another squeeze. He needed it, too, he realizes belatedly. Holding Fugo up like this makes him feel more steady. Makes it easier to just be. He wants to curl up against Fugo and close his eyes and pretend the rest of this stupid world doesn't exist. This isn't quite that, but — it's close. It helps.]

[Despite everything Giorno has said so far, despite all the ways he's pressed in close since he fell through the mirror, Fugo does not expect Giorno to hold him. The best he could hope for was a simple lack of rejection-- to not be pushed away, or held at arm's length. But even as he curls forward, Giorno is already moving to hold onto him.]

It isn't strange? It doesn't bother you?

[Shouldn't it? He's being-- selfish, childish, stupid. But Giorno doesn't let him go. Giorno holds on, tightly, tightly, tightly. Giorno's posture is a mirror of his own. They stand together, close, each holding the other up. Slowly, he moves his free under Giorno's arm to hesitantly reach around and loosely cling to his back.]

Bother me?

[It comes out muffled into Fugo’s shirt, because even in the wake of such a strange question he isn’t willing to pull away. Instead he peeks over Fugo’s shoulder to stare at the opposite wall in confusion, brows drawn together. Instead his fingers tighten instinctively in the back of Fugo’s shirt — because of course they do.]

No, Fugo. I— [And then Fugo’s arm reaches around to hold him. Fingers tighten in the back of his shirt, an overcautious echo of his own desperate grip. Unable to stop himself, he sighs and closes his eyes, burying his face against Fugo’s shoulder again.]

. . . I like this. I like when you reach for me. [He likes to be needed, to be held. Strange as that is for both of them, there’s no point denying it. Not now, when it’s so obvious.]

[It has been a very long time since someone willingly held him. He pulled away out of his grandmother's arms so long ago that his memories of her arms around his shoulders have grown fuzzy with time; it's less of a memory and more of a story he told himself. Once I cried-- because my brothers were cruel; because I was afraid to go on stage; because Grandfather was disappointed-- and my grandmother held me, for as long as I needed. It probably happened. His grandmother was a very kind woman. Even to him, when he was so cold and standoffish and difficult to talk to.

Giorno holds him now. His embrace is tight. It would be a little difficult to pull away, if he wanted to. He doesn't want to. He feels tired, in a way that's beyond physical aches and pains; worn thin, in a way that makes it difficult to stand on his own. He doesn't really understand why it helps. He's never needed to be held. He gave up wanting it a long time ago. Even, so--]

[It feels better. It's such a relief, to be held. That Giorno hasn't pushed him away, even though he's been such an insufferable asshole lately. Fugo makes a vague affirmative sound. He doesn't ... really understand why Giorno likes it. But it's hard to deny it, either. He was so tense earlier, but he's so relaxed now. The biggest difference is the distance that has been closed between them.]

... I won't go, then.

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