ic inbox ( ǣfenglōm )

[digiorno]

"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!" ⯈ text ⯈ voice ⯈ video ⯈ action

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[unholey]

[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.]

[digiorno]

[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.]

[unholey]

[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.]

[digiorno]

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.]

[unholey]

[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.