digiorno | ic inbox ( ǣfenglōm )

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ic inbox ( ǣfenglōm )

"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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[Personally, Giorno finds the whole speech to be somewhat condescending. Then again, he's biased. In both cases when he's found himself in this room, it's been either an emergency or approaching one; this is actually less dire than what happened with Zelda, but he's nonetheless focused on the necessity of the matter.]

[Still, he thinks, gaze drifting to Fugo as they make their way into the circle; as he takes one of Fugo's hands in his, then the other in the other; even if it is meant to be condescending, there are more important things to focus on. This person across from him who has, after much thought, agreed to let him in. To let himself be seen. That's what's important, isn't it?]

[That's what's important.]

[The feeling of Fugo's hands in his is so familiar, so safe, and so reassuring. After a moment, he offers a slight smile meant for Fugo alone.]

I can go first, if you'd like.

[He won't insist on it, though. Not after Fugo was so nervous about the quality of the vows. Maybe it would make him feel worse to go after?]

[In the past week, as if to make up for his avoidance of the subject in the past months, Fugo has done a lot of reading about Bonds. Not the literature, of which there is a wealth of material on the subject-- tragic novels, romantic poetry, recently-illegal stage dramas, music of all genres. None of it has the answers to his own questions. What is a Bond, exactly? How would forming one with Giorno change the fabric of their lives, for better and for worse? For something at the heart of so much of Aefenglom’s day-to-day life and culture, practical answers about how Bonds are formed are mostly out of his reach as a newcomer who has just begun his study of magic.

But what information he can find, he’s studied obsessively. He knows now, from studying the development of the Wilders’ temporary Bond potions, that the closeness of a Bond comes from the magical signatures of two individuals being woven seamlessly together. He’s read the memoir of a famous Witch, reflecting on the tight Bonds she would form and then dissolve, for fear of their magic going wild, with her fellows to facilitate powerful spellwork that no single Witch could accomplish on their own. More recent essays on the benefits of Bonds between Monsters and Witches in comparison to familiars were helpful in understanding healthy cycling of magic.]

[So, practically speaking, Fugo gets it. Really, he understands as best as he is able, and he doesn’t need this Witch to not-really-explain things he’s spent all this time worrying about. The longer the explanation goes on, the more wound up he gets. His grip on Giorno’s hands is tight, just shy of being painful, and clenches even tighter with the blithe claim of it’s not complicated. Fugo takes a breath in, counts to seven, and lets it out. When he looks up at Giorno, the sight of his smile and the following offer to go first eases some of the tension he feels.]

No. It’s alright. [He shakes his head, which sends his at-one-point neatly combed hair flying around his face. It’s a little wavy, today, which bothered him all morning, so he tied it back; even though he adjusted the tie before they were called in his bangs, too short to stay in place, have already fallen out of place. With their hands clasped, there’s no way to fix it.] I’m ready. I can meet you.

[Half of a step. It’s easy to see, now, all the ways and times Giorno tried to reach for him leading up to this point. He can-- he must-- take this half of a step forward to meet him.]

I will walk with you. [As nervous as he has been this whole time, when it comes to the vow, Fugo’s voice, although soft, is steady. He has thought so much about this. What it is he wants to promise to Giorno, when he has already sworn himself to his dream, as half of the knot that will bind them together. There isn’t a flicker of doubt or uncertainty on his face when he speaks. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t falter, doesn’t hesitate.] Wherever this path takes us, I will stay by your side, half of a step away. There is nowhere you could go, in this world or any other, that I would not follow. If the path we walk becomes too dark to see, I will find my way forward by holding your hand.

Giorno, I am yours.

[With typically unfortunate timing, Giorno realizes that Fugo is beautiful standing in front of him. Not only now, of course; Fugo is always beautiful, in a way that he now knows to describe as fae-like, ethereal and a little strange. But now, in this room, in this light, hair coming loose around his face . . . Fugo looks cloudy and gossamer, an intangible thing that nonetheless has come to rest in Giorno’s outstretched hands. It seems impossible, but the weight and pressure against his fingers tells him that it’s true.]

[He doesn’t question the thought. There are purely objective ways to consider another person’s beauty. He also doesn’t question the fact that this isn’t one of those ways. There’s no time, and there’s no space in his heart right now, either. He has to watch. He has to listen. This is something he has to remember, always.]

[It all touches him. Holds too close to his heart for him to stand. It feels like long burning fingers reaching through his ribs and digging in tight to his beating heart, holding it so that it batters itself against some foreign palm. But not, he considers absently, in a bad way. There’s a part of him that so desperately fears being lost and alone again, in a place like this or in any place, that it finds itself soothed by being so imprisoned by someone else’s soul.]

[Held. Not imprisoned. Held. This is . . . loyalty. This is . . .]

[There is nowhere you would go that I would not follow, Fugo tells him, and he breathes in softer and shakier than he anticipated or would admit to later. He’s still smiling, but it’s fragile and soft, like the smile he wore a moment ago after a long, overwhelming day.]

Fugo, I am yours.

[He doesn’t realize he’s speaking until the first sentence is finished. He had a plan, a small speech, but he thinks he’s forgotten it. The words just happen. His hands are faintly clammy and cold as always.]

I will walk with you. I will meet you halfway when you can’t take a step. I’ll lead you the best I can — I swear, the very best I can, every moment of every day. I want to hurt with you, to smile with you, to feel quiet with you and loud with you. I will hold all of you, always. And I will try . . .

[For the first and only time, he falters. But then, stubbornly, he forges ahead, chin tipping up insistently.]

I’ll lean on you when I’m not strong enough to stand on my own. I trust you with everything that I am. I want you to see me.

[He will never forget this moment.]

[Even as his nerves rush forward in the moment where his vows have ended and before Giorno has begun to say his, Fugo does not look away from him. He memorizes the strange set of his mouth, so different from the smiles he's used to seeing from Giorno; the shakiness in his breath, the clamminess of his hands. Even before the ceremony is complete, he can feel signs of Giorno's well-hidden nerves all around him. More than just what Giorno says, Fugo puts to memory how he says it-- the way his words fall out of his mouth too quickly, how they seem to stumble into each other before trailing off as if he's lost track of what he wants to say entirely.

It's so unlike him. Giorno Giovanna, perfectly put together and purposefully inscrutable, allows himself to falter. Allows Fugo to see him as he is, imperfect and rambling and nervous. I trust you with everything that I am. The good hand in hand with the bad. The weak in turn with the strong.]

[He will never forget the way Giorno stubbornly tips his chin forward, facing the vulnerability of their Bond with both eyes open.]

I trust you. [What else can he say in response to that but this? It occurs to him, with a sudden clarity that at the heart of a Bond is trust. In the first breaths of the spell taking, as the Witch deftly stitches their magical signatures together, Fugo finds himself reaching in the gap between them. As afraid as he is to be seen--

He's certain in his trust of Giorno. That after everything, no matter what he sees, Giorno will not turn away from him. He has to believe that.]

[The last thing Fugo says before the ritual of the Bond is complete is: I trust you.]

[The first thing Giorno feels from him once their magics are made one is: I trust you. There are worlds of difference between hearing it said and feeling it. In the space between the spoken word and its intended audience, things can get so lost, so distorted. But within the Bond there is no miscommunication. Not even a chance of it. Everything is bare. It's freeing. It's terrifying.]

[It makes his breath catch in his chest; makes him gasp for his breath, as though they're on the top of some distant mountain where the air is thin. He can feel Fugo's trust in him in the same way he feels his clothes hang on his body, the same as the flex of his muscles when he moves forward, pushing Fugo's hands away in order to run hands up his arms and cup his face.]

[He feels too much. Fugo's cheeks are warm under his touch, his eyes wide and clear; he's overful with relief and gratitude and fear and so, so much trust, reverberating against Fugo's until their shared mental space echoes with it. Something is coming up from behind, tight around the curve, a galloping pulse of mine-mine-mine, fond and pleased as he runs his thumbs over Fugo's cheekbones.]

[But then his gaze catches on the officiating Witch. The faint flutter of a sigh pushes through the Bond.]

Do you know that teleporting spell, Fugo? I don't want to be here anymore.

[He's gotten what he needed from the Coven. Now he wants to go home.]

[There is no first step to their Bond. Instead, Fugo feels a sense of vertigo; in those first moments, he loses his footing, falls, and is pulled out to sea by the powerful riptide of Giorno's possessive, demanding affection. He feels half a dozen spines of emotion that aren't his: gladness, relief, awe. An undercurrent of fear, nearly drowned out by a powerfully resonant sense of trust and thankfulness but nonetheless there. Giorno does not try to hide any of it from him.

So of course he's lost in it. Knowledge-- belief in the should-be-impossible-- of Giorno's belief in him is so different from the reality of it that in, in the moment, he just gets lost in it. Locked in is the only way to describe it. He can feel Giorno let go of his hands, but it doesn't quite click with him what's happening.]

Teleporting spell? [Oh, right, they're still-- Fugo tries to turn to look at the Witch who officiated the ceremony, only to be held firmly in place by Giorno's cool palms and slender fingers. Oh. Giorno's-- even though there's no hiding that the touch flusters him, not anymore, his eyes briefly duck away when Giorno's thumbs brush over his cheekbones.] I don't-- ... sorry, no. Not that one.

[He bites the inside of his cheek, takes a breath, and squares his shoulders. Right. He can do this. He just... won't think. About how warm his face is, or how stupid his expression must be right now. It's over. It's done. They can leave, now.]

Thank you. The spell was a success, obviously. We'll be-- leaving now. Excuse us.

[It may be with their own two feet instead of some flashy teleportation spell, but that will get the job done. Without thinking, Fugo reaches for one of Giorno's wrists, tugs on it, and then takes his hand to firmly lead him out of the room. The Witch, who has overseen plenty of Bonding ceremonies, waves them off with a Knowing sort of expression. Not that Fugo sees. For once, he keeps his eyes forward instead of looking back.]

[It’s probably not surprising that Giorno’s first response to being denied is dissatisfaction. Only at the level of a pout, fortunately, since he knows on some level that it isn’t Fugo’s fault; he can’t know everything, no matter how clever he is. So his reaction drifts between resentment at the Witch’s presence, sulkiness at not being able to leave instantaneously, and a consistent low-level delight at Fugo’s cleverness. It’s odd, a disorientation only exacerbated by the sudden jolt of pleasure at wresting his wrist out of Fugo’s grip and sliding their fingers together.]

[Through the Bond, possessiveness is warmly wicked, sharp and clutching but with teeth that don’t bite down, the milk teeth of a young and benevolent predator. Giorno, as he’s led out of the Bond room, is flushed and smiling, following Fugo’s lead with bright-eyed delight.]

Are you taking me home? [Asked as he catches up, after a brief and slightly disoriented pause; he stumbles up the steps, tugs Fugo’s hand towards the exit.] We don’t have to go anywhere else, do we? [Something yearning here. He just wants Fugo now. To not have to do anything else, or be responsible. To just feel the Bond for a little while.]

[Giorno's feelings wash over him, one after the other, the waves of an unknown ocean pulling in and out against the shore of his own mind. The tide is high; Giorno feels a lot, apparently, but it doesn't seem to bother him. He doesn't care about the inherent contradiction between resentment and satisfaction.]

No, as long as we're out, we're going to visit the grocer. [This is, of course, sarcasm. Fugo doesn't intentionally push this towards Giorno, but he'll be able to feel it needling at him, dry and prickly, through the Bond.] Of course we're going home, Giogio. Where else would we go?

[Fugo follows the tug to his hand. He doesn't-- as overwhelmed as he feels, with Giorno's emotions brushing up against his, he doesn't want to be far away from him. His grip on Giorno's hand doesn't get any looser. If they're going to be tangled up like this, he wants to stay close until they sort this out. He's prepared to be very stubborn about it, but-- ... Giorno wants to stay with him, at home, and not go anywhere else. That's all he wants. That's ... all he wants.]

I don't know. That's why I asked.

[Mulish, but in no way actually irritated. He's smiling, actually, as they make their way out of the Coven, a soft and pleased expression that doesn't beam but is still a fair way past the standard Mona Lisa smile.]

[The feel of Fugo's soul brushing against his is so . . . interesting. He runs his thumb along the side of Fugo's hand, letting his eyes drift shut for a second and trusting Fugo to lead him as he tries to spread out in the space just a little bit. Everything is stark, dry and brittle. Like a desert, he thinks, and hums at the comparison before opening his eyes. Yes, that makes good sense — because there are so many things that have adapted to live in the desert, aren't there, and the storms, when they come, are devastating.]

[Hidden depths. Deserts are all told, little shown.]

. . . I just don't want to be distracted, [he murmurs, sighing softly.] From this. For a little while. I want to take my time with it.

[Out of the corner of his eyes (because he's peeking, even though it would be a better idea to keep his eyes forward) he can see that Giorno is smiling. And that his eyes are closed. Giorno isn't watching, because he--]

[Giorno's trust-- his... admiration?-- for him is a living thing. Green. He can feel how it's taken root; how it brushes up against him now, whisper light, along the side of his hand. No. That's... Giorno's thumb, moving back and forth. Fugo shivers, then shakes his head, caught between the Bond and his physical senses.]

... I don't think I could focus on anything else. [He doesn't have to look, does he. The sunshine of Giorno's pleasure shines across to him, bright and unmistakeable and warm. Even if he wasn't sneaking a look, he would know, wouldn't he. That Giorno is smiling.] So let's go home.

[. . . Oh.]

[I don’t think I could focus on anything else, Fugo admits; in clear response, a spark of possessiveness shoots from the depths of his soul across the Bond, sudden and vital. His fingers tighten around Fugo’s, his wrist twitching slightly to pull his Bonded closer, just an inch so that there’s a scant few millimeters separating them as they walk. Hip to hip.]

[Fugo can’t focus on anything but him. There’s the feeling of his stomach sinking and his heart lifting at the same time: he can’t go back from this. It would crush him. To have Fugo back out of this—]

[The fear threatens to swallow him. To swallow both of them. He looks at Fugo from the corner of his eyes, Fugo with a light flush splashed across his pale cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, Fugo who wants to take him home. He’s not — he won’t. He promised.]

[I will find my way forward by holding your hand.]

[The fear (of being left alone, having wholly, instantly eclipsed the fear of being known) eases. Not entirely, but enough. He squeezes Fugo’s hand again and nods.]

[And they go home.]

[It’s strange, how the instinct kicks in. He leads Fugo upstairs to his room, explaining, if he’s asked, that the bed is better. Letting Fugo’s hand go only to haul out extra blankets from the closet, he piles them on the bed and then removes his shoes, lining them up neatly by the door. As he crawls into the bed, curls up half-sitting against the pillows, and blinks across the room expectantly at Fugo, he isn’t thinking about dying in this bed. He’s thinking about all that he can feel from Fugo in this moment. He’s thinking about examining the correlation between his emotions and the shifts in his facial expression from up close. About Fugo. That’s all.]

[Between one heartbeat and the next, two spikes of emotion pulse through the Bond: possessiveness hand-in-hand with fear. Giorno is afraid. Of what? That Fugo will turn away from this. That Fugo will leave him.

Before Fugo can turn to say something like I'll stay or at least I won't go, Giorno tugs him closer. They're a little too close. The rest of the way home they jostle each other on the street. But neither of them takes that step to move farther away. In this moment, it's more important to be close.]

[They make it home. Giorno pulls him upstairs with just a brief explanation, the bed is better, that doesn't make much sense until they actually get up to his room. And Giorno finally lets go of him to pull out extra quilts from his closet because, oh. Oh. Giorno ... means for them to sit together, on the bed.]

I'll-- be a moment. [The tips of his ears are burning. This shouldn't be embarrassing. Right? Part of a Bond is-- it's not just magical, it's physical contact. It's not a big deal, Fugo thinks, as he unbuttons his jacket and hangs it over the back of Giorno's desk chair. They can maybe read, or talk, or-- or something. He forgets to take his shoes off, at first; it's only when he sits at the edge of the bed that he realizes that they need to come off.] Sorry, I wasn't thinking.

[Or, rather: he's thinking too much. He should stop, probably. Is there a way to turn off his thoughts? How much of a sense does Giorno have of them? He has to feel the nervous buzz like a hive of wasps, of them between his ears.]

. . . It's all right.

[Thoughtful. Fugo is nervous — very nervous. It's strange but interesting, the way he recognizes the signs in the way Fugo moves and speaks but can now add something else to it: the frenetic buzzing of anxiety bouncing through the Bond.]

[Under other circumstances, he would make a joke. About helping Fugo take his shoes off, or something. He might even do it. But for now, he resists. His own skin itches sympathetically; he reaches out to pass the flat of his hand across Fugo's shoulderblade, a light touch meant to be soothing. At the same time, he passes calm through the Bond.]

There's not any rush. Neither of us is going anywhere. Right?

[It's . . . acknowledgment. And gratitude. And returning the favor, all at once. Nothing bad is happening; both of them are safe, and Fugo isn't going to mess anything up.]

[Bent over his knees to unlace his shoes, Fugo can't see the way Giorno's expression unfolds. This would make him nervous. (It does make him nervous, even though it's Giorno; even though this is someone who he could-should-does trust, not being able to see his face makes him nervous.) But he can feel it. A pale brush of concern. And then-- calmness. Not that Giorno himself is calm, but he wants Fugo to feel better. His hand is cool on his shoulder, but his touch feels warm.]

[Fugo's back is tight underneath Giorno's hand. At first, it tenses further; Fugo feels embarrassed, a little ashamed, to be caught in what he considers to be a fit of needless nerves.]

I know that. I believe you. [Mechanically, his hands go through the simple task of unlacing his shoes. First the right, then the left. He slides them under the bed, out of the way.] This is just-- [He purses his lips, frustrated, then tries to adjust his posture; he takes a deep breath, breathing in deep and then releasing it all in a gusty sigh. The end result is... slightly less tension. Fugo turns to look at Giorno, giving him a sort of helpless look.] Just who I am. It's always like this.

[Fugo relaxes, but not because he's relaxed. He relaxes because he's forcing himself to, because in some way he feels reprimanded, or at least in the wrong. And the way he feels this in no way places blame on Giorno, but . . .]

[It's always like this, Fugo says, looking at him with helpless eyes, and what he means is, I'm always like this. There is so much blame in the space between them, and it only goes one way.]

[Achingly, endlessly tender, he scoots a little closer so that their hips press together like they did on the walk over, so his toes dangle over the edge of the bed. Out of the tangle of blankets, even. He slowly, carefully runs his fingers through Fugo's hair from the front to the back, pushing his bangs away out of his face and subtly undoing tangles along the way.]

I'm not upset. [He tips his head to one side, birdlike: See? Because Fugo can feel it. He isn't. He's just fond and maybe a little worried.] I like you. I like who you are.

[He was going to say something else. He loses it, though. Fugo's hair is very soft, and . . . it feels, too, as though he's said everything that matters.]

[Before anything else, Giorno moves closer.]

[Before he does anything else, before he even works out what he thinks or wants to do, Giorno moves closer. And because of the Bond, he'll feel for the first time the way Fugo's heart clenches as Giorno's fingers gently pull through his hair. Before he says a word, Giorno will be able to feel the painful ache of relief in Fugo's chest. Because instead of pulling away, even though his thoughts are so ugly, Giorno moved closer.

It means a lot to him. So much that, for a while, he can't speak. He sits in silence, shoulders trembling, before moving to kean into Giorno's touch. It feels right. He doesn't have to say anything right now. This is what's important, isn't it? Just this. Being close.]

[This is . . . so new.]

[Not surprising. Not really, not really, not when he knows he means a lot to Fugo, maybe too much — but even if his mind isn't surprised, his heart is shocked. An echo of his own heart clenching ripples back over the Bond, then an echo of that painful relief. With every response Fugo gives that is subtly or overtly surprised at his closeness, Giorno moves closer.]

[And then, Fugo leans against him. Leans his head into his touch, overwhelmed and uncertain but trying. There's an emotion he can't parse that pushes through the Bond to him, something — in the midst of all of the confusion, some certainty. Some willingness to stay, to do this thing in the face of all this unknown.]

[Without hesitation, he loops his arms under Fugo's and around his middle, pulling him close in an awkward but deeply fond embrace. The moment his hands meet behind Fugo's back, he sighs, an audible sound at the same time as the sensation of contentment washes through him. Finally, is what he thinks and what he feels; finally, because right here is where he wanted to be this whole time.]

[He rests his face against Fugo's shoulder. It's burning. He isn't sure why. He's happy, though, so it must be good.]

[In this moment, the Bond between them is a mirror. Their chests ache with the same pain, born from two different pits of loneliness: they are both startled by how the other does not pull away.]

[Between one moment and the next, amidst the warmth of Giorno's gladness and relief, Giorno wraps his arms around Fugo's torso and pulls him close. It's less of an embrace and more of an awkward tangle of limbs, because Fugo isn't sure where to put his own arms at first; it doesn't occur to him to hug back for an awkward few seconds. It's not until Giorno rests his forehead on his shoulder does he realize that, oh, it's alright to hug back.

That Giorno would probably like it, if he hugged him back.]

[So he does. He repositions his arms around Giorno twice, trying and failing to find a more natural way to reciprocate, but in the end he applies gentle pressure around his back.]

Like this? [Probably a stupid question. The prevailing emotion he's getting through the Bond is just-- contentment. Giorno is glad to be close, even if it's awkward.]

[Giorno does like it when he gets a hug back. So much so that he really doesn't need to say anything, probably; the ripple of joy through the Bond is simple and clear, the emotional equivalent of sunlight shining off a dozen bright surfaces at once. He didn't mind the shuffling, the awkwardness, but once Fugo is actually embracing him everything seems right. Easier to understand, too. Nothing is nearly as complicated as either of them made it out to be.]

Mm, [he affirms, a soft hum of delight against Fugo's shoulder as he recognizes the security of their reflected Bond — that he doesn't have to worry he's doing something wrong, because Fugo would let him know, or he would let Fugo know. They don't have anything to fear from each other now — that's what he thinks, in this moment.]

[That and, a breath later: it could be more comfortable, couldn't it? With a contemplative noise, he leans back and looks at Fugo. They're very close. He can see each of Fugo's pale eyelashes and the slight flush across the bridge of his nose.]

[Not close enough. He smiles, faint and guileless, and tips himself backwards into the pile of blankets, pulling Fugo with him without a hint of regret.]

[Fugo doesn't know what Giorno is thinking. The Bond doesn't work like that. What he does have insight into is what he's feeling: happy and confident, certain in his belief that everything is as it should be. Maybe if he could read Giorno's thoughts, he would have put a stop to what happens next.

Or maybe not. Giorno is very impulsive. And it happens pretty quickly.]

[Giorno pulls up and stares at him; his smile is subtle, easier to read in the crinkled corners of his eyes than his mouth. Even without the Bond, Fugo can see just how glad Giorno is. He thinks to himself-- What is he looking at?-- and then, before he has a chance to voice the question, Giorno tugs them both down.

A decision that he, obviously, did not think through very well. Fugo tenses and startles as he loses his balance and topples forward towards Giorno. It's not very far; he has no room to catch himself. Their foreheads smack together with a distinct clonk, prompting a sharp stream of curses out of Fugo's mouth that he would under ordinary circumstances he never would direct towards Giorno. It's all very smooth. They're doing great.]

[This was a mistake.]

[Or maybe it wasn't. Even as his eyes widen in realization at the inevitable; even as their foreheads clonk together, sparking a sharp pain in his forehead—] Ow! [—there's no real negative emotion there. Hardly any shock, either, beyond a short moment of startle.]

[What happens next is that Fugo swears. A lot. Truly majestically. He's only ever heard such language from Fugo once or twice, back when they barely knew each other. His eyes widen in awe for a moment. He is . . . impressed.]

[But after a few more seconds of this apparently inexhaustible series of curses, he has to press his lips together to keep from laughing. And a few seconds more leaves him unable to contain it. There's a rush of air through his pursed lips that quickly dissolves into full-body hysterical giggling. He shakes under Fugo with laughter that he doesn't even bother trying to hide, one hand clutched in the back of Fugo's shirt to keep him from getting away. Just in case.]

[This is fun, he's pretty sure.]

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